Phase Three Alert

CHAPTER ELEVEN

In three weeks’ time a near miracle took place inside the wide expanse of Hangar 8. Once the rebuilding project got fairly underway, Americans and Danes combined their labors and their skills to bring The Passionate Penguin back to respectability, if not to life. The two halves of the fuselage were reunited and bolted securely together. The control surfaces were stripped of their old fabric and expertly recovered with new material — new in the sense that it had never previously been used. Actually it had been occupying shelf space in Supply for some years with very little likelihood of its ever being withdrawn. There was even some aluminum-colored dope on hand so that the job could be properly finished in exactly the original color.

The odor of drying dope produced some fond memories on the part of those Air Force men who had been associated with aircraft in an earlier day, and a Danish worker who happened to hold an advanced pilot’s license in his own country was almost ecstatic. “It can be done,” he mumured to himself at frequent intervals. “It can be done!”

Sergeant Holcomb went to Supply to see if he could get some new and unused control cable. The old cables seemed to be perfectly all right, but Lieutenant Ferguson had decreed that they must all be replaced in the interests of maximum safety. At the Supply window, where he was by now the most familiar face on Thule Air Base, he asked if there was any cable available.

“There may be some,” the supply man said. “I believe I ran across it the other day. But this we can’t declare surplus; if you want any, you’ll have to pay for it.”

Andy Holcomb stood still while he calculated. All of the control cable systems of the B-17 were in duplicate; by the time that several pairs of cables were run from the cockpit far back to the empennage, and more sets were run all of the way out through the wings, the total length required would be over a thousand feet. “How much is it?” he asked.

“Fifteen cents a foot, as I recall.”

Andy winced, but he did not complain — he did not dare to. Already a considerable quantity of materiel had turned up on the diposable list just when it was needed by the workers in Hangar 8. True, all of it had been unquestionably outdated, but control cable was another matter.

“Ten feet ought to do it,” the supply man said.

“Why ten feet—” Andy began, and then came to his senses.

“Let me give you ten feet, Sergeant, and then you can come back for however much more you need — if we have it. Just a minute.”

When he returned, he was pushing a hand dolly on which a large spool of wire was fastened with a reefer strap. “There ought to be ten feet here,” he declared. “I can measure it if you’d like, or you can take it as is.”

“Don’t bother to measure,” Andy answered. “I trust you.”

“That’s good. A buck fifty, please, and I’ll get someone to help you with that dolly. It’s pretty heavy.”

Andy dug into his pocket. “That’s all right, I can manage it. Two guys taking out ten feet of cable would look kind of silly, I think. By the way, how are you fixed for metal polish?”

“We have the right gunk for cleaning up aluminum, a hundred-pound drum’s on hand. It’s not fresh, because they don’t use it on the Jollies.”

“We’ll take it anyway. I’ll be back.”

“Bring a couple of bucks — you may need them. We’ve got to keep people honest around here.”

Lieutenant Ferguson, in the best uniform that he could muster for the occasion, presented himself at the colonel’s office and checked in with the Executive Officer. A minute or two later he was ushered into Colonel Kleckner’s presence, where he observed the formalities. Then he was invited to sit down.

“Lieutenant, I sent for you to pass on some information. The next rotator is bringing up another C-130 crew; the A/C is a Captain Boyd. Do you happen to know him, by any chance?”

“No, sir, I believe not.”

“Boyd and his crew will be here while the Army is carrying on its project at Camp Century. They will fly their share of the trips so that you won’t have to make them all.”

Ferguson was relieved; he had been terribly afraid that he was being replaced and would have to leave Thule and the Penguin behind him.

“That’s fine, sir,” he said.

“I’m not sure that this new crew is ski qualified, so you may have to check them out.”

“No problem, sir.”

“Fine, speaking of projects, how are you coming along with your B-17?”

It was the first time that the colonel had ever mentioned the subject.

“Better than we had dared to hope, sir. We have her all back here, as I’m sure you know, and the quality of work that’s going into her you wouldn’t believe. Yesterday they finished the overhaul of the tail-wheel mechanism. The first time that they hooked up a battery and tried it, it worked perfectly.”

Colonel Kleckner flashed one of his quick smiles. “That’s interesting. I must say, bringing the whole airplane back, one of that size, was quite a feat.”

“We couldn’t have done it, sir, without Det. Four. This is heresy, sir, but those helicopters are marvelous and the guys that fly them are out of this world. They did the impossible.”

The colonel turned his chair a few degrees and made himself more comfortable. “It was valuable training, I’m sure; running back and forth to Kanak isn’t too much of a challenge. I suspect that that’s why Major Kimsey laid on the exercise, which was, in a way, fortunate for you.”

“Extremely fortunate, sir.”

Colonel Kleckner waved a hand. “I want all of my units, and every man at this base to improve himself while he’s here. The United States Air Force doesn’t take a back seat to anyone.”

“No, sir, never!”

“How are you financing your reconstruction job?”

“Well, sir, we’re going on the assumption that that bird is going to fly again before too long—”

He stopped when he saw a frown cross the colonel’s face. But when the base commander said nothing, Ferguson continued. “So we have a little game going. Every rated man, and that includes all ranks that hold a commercial license or better, Danish or American, puts a buck in the kitty, along with his name, whenever he feels like it. When the time comes, we’ll have a drawing. The man whose name is pulled gets to fly.”

“That sounds logical — and fair. You plan to draw only one name? You said ‘the man’ whose name comes up.”

“Yes, sir, I did. He gets to fly copilot.” Ferguson let down his guard; he could not help himself. “That’s my airplane, sir, and I’m going to fly it!”

The colonel pushed his lips together for a moment. “Before you set a date, please check with me — just in case.”

“Yes, sir, absolutely.” Ferguson knew that the interview was over. He stood up, saluted, and exited, in a suitable manner.

It was already much warmer outside, and the days were rapidly getting longer. In a few weeks there would be twenty-four hour summer daylight and the harbor would unfreeze enough to permit waterborne traffic — what there might be of it. Few ships ever dared to venture so far north.

He jumped into a taxi and asked the driver to take him to Hangar 8; it would be more than an hour before mess call and an enormous amount of work remained to be done. As he pushed open the personnel door, he was inspired by the knowledge that the colonel had given the whole project at least a conditional blessing. He had hopefully assumed that; but having it confirmed was the best news he had had since he had seen the second of the wing root sections coming down from off the ice cap.

He walked briskly inside, ready to take on whatever task he would be given to do. He was halfway to the working area before he was suddenly aware that something was seriously wrong. He looked quickly about and saw that although there were several other men in the hangar, they were gathered about one spot and most of them were standing still.

Fighting against the ominous atmosphere that was already surrounding him, he forced himself to walk over to them calmly and then asked, “What is it?”

Corbin, his copilot, answered him. He was a strong, well-controlled young man, but at that moment he fought to keep his voice normal as he answered.

“About an hour ago we started work on the right main landing gear. That’s the next thing and it has to be put in shape before we can assemble any further. We were giving all of the components a Class-A inspection when… we found that the main structural fitting that holds the gear struts to the wing frame is cracked wide open.”

“How badly? Can it be welded?”

Corbin shook his head. “Negative. It’s an intricate basic part that has to take high stress on landing. It’s got to be in one solid piece and no fix could be acceptable. I wouldn’t buy it, and I know you won’t either.”

Ferguson recognized that his redheaded junior had spoken the truth. “Then we’ll have to get another one,” he said.

It was a good, bravura speech, but it did not impress the disillusioned men.

In the few seconds of silence that followed his pronouncement, Ferguson saw it all clearly in his mind. The utter remoteness and desolation of Thule was something that seeped into the bones and marrow of the men who served there. The monotony was like a slow poison that took away energy and ambition and left only discouragement in its place. Despite bowling leagues, a good gym, the library, the theater, and all that, nothing could wipe away the ever-present awareness of the High Arctic — its unyielding hostility and the sudden violent death that, at times, was only a few breaths away.

Under such conditions, boredom was all-pervading and the routine nature of the work regularly done was in itself stifling. The Penguin project had come like a rescue flare in the Arctic night sky. It had promised something new — a great challenge combined with a massive work commitment, but one that had injected new life throughout every corner of the Thule facility. The Penguin herself had become a symbol and she had been blessed by the dedication of the men who labored gladly to restore her. They had chosen to attempt the virtually impossible, and they had found excitement in the process.

Corbin was speaking again. “Even Sergeant Stovers can’t suggest any place we can look. God knows where any replacement parts would be now.”

Ferguson fought back against the thing that fate had done to him with the desperation of a man facing an avalanche. “Boeing might have one, or even Douglas — they built B-17’s too.”

“After thirty years?” Corbin shook his head. “You know what the chances are of that. We could advertise, but that would tell the whole world, and the Pentagon, what’s going on up here.”

Ferguson thought. “I guess this is what I’ve been afraid of since we began,” he admitted. “The time when we’d run into something that we couldn’t either fix or replace. And, oh God, a main landing-gear fitting!”

Jenkins came over, still heavy, but almost ten pounds lighter since the work on the airplane had begun. “We’re all going to see if we can’t come up with something,” he offered. “A lot of the guys on this base have got connections.”

Ferguson let it all spill out. “Yes, but we need a complicated main structural component, and there haven’t been any of those parts available for several aircraft generations.”

When no one had anything to say in reply to that, he turned toward the door and went back outside.

That night he was hit by the wild idea that there were at least seven other known B-17’s out on the ice cap. One of them might still have the vital part intact, but he knew, at the same moment that that idea crossed his mind, he would never be able to go out and get it. It would take a crane to lift the aircraft up and hold the load while the part was removed. And because of what it was, it would take many hours of labor to get it off under the best of conditions. He would need permission, a satisfactory landing area, and too many other things to make it possible. No dice — and he could not convince himself otherwise.

He turned over in bed and tried once more to get to sleep.

The Thule grapevine was apparently down for maintenance, because it was past 1000 hours the following morning before Chief Master Sergeant Perry Feinberg learned about the disastrous discovery in Hangar 8. At once he knew that it was a matter so grave he would have to give it his fullest personal attention. As he dealt with the pile of work that was part of his daily responsibility, he kept coming back to the problem and exposing it to the searching investigation of his resourceful mind. As soon as he got off at noon, he called a cab and went immediately to see things for himself. When he had done that he repaired to the mess hall where there was now a long table more or less reserved for the B-17 project personnel.

Most of the prime movers were there, including Ferguson, who looked like a man three-quarters of the way through a summer hike across Death Valley. No one was doing very much talking. As Feinberg unloaded his amply filled tray, Andy Holcomb ventured a remark. “I don’t know how many of you guys have been in South America, but it is supposed to be a place where every aircraft part ever made can be found. At least it’s worth a try.”

As soon as he was comfortably installed, Sergeant Feinberg took over. “Gentlemen,” he began, “we have certain alternatives and we should know clearly what they are. First, we can try to moonlight-requisition the necessary part from a B-17 somewhere or have it done for us. Forget the ones on the ice cap; the odds are too high against success.”

“Agreed,” Ferguson said.

“Secondly, we can try to locate a new part on the shelf somewhere in the world; it could still possibly be. We could also try to have one made. Lastly, we can admit that this breaks us and forget the whole thing.”

“Over my dead body,” Ferguson retorted.

“I didn’t propose it,” Feinberg replied, “I only stated it as a mathematical possibility. Actually, if we were to stop now, and it became known that I had been associated with the project, my reputation would suffer a massive setback. Therefore we must think of something else.”

“Any suggestions?” Corbin asked.

“Just possibly. First, a question: does anybody know the status of Sergeant Murphy, the electronics whiz?”

“He’s going out on the next rotator,” Tom Collins answered. “You’d have to announce that Jesus was going to preach in person from the summit of Mount Dundas to keep him here.”

“Did anyone give him the picture?”

A bearded Dane at the table shook his head. “The picture I have,” he announced. “If he saw that, he would not be able to leave — he would be in the coronary care unit at the hospital.”

“Another good idea gone down the tube,” Feinberg said. “But men are known by the obstacles they overcome.”

Ferguson was sitting very still, hardly listening to what was going on. He recognized that he was confronted by defeat, but he refused to accept it. Somehow, some way, they would get out of the predicament. At that moment he had no idea how, but it would have to be done. If only Thule weren’t so desperately isolated; stateside he might have a chance.

He caught the fact that he was beginning to think negatively and he determined to correct it. He looked up and for the moment purged the problem from his mind. “Who is the best musician on the base?” he asked.

“Tony Agretti in Supply,” Captain Tilton answered. “He plays several instruments and is good at everything.”

“Then we’ve got a job for him,” Ferguson continued. “We’re going to have to have a suitable celebration when the Penguin is finished.”

In a flash Tilton understood, and played along. “Of course. We’ll make the Air Force Times, and have a good shot at Newsweek and Time. Not to mention Flying and all of the other aviation media.”

“To do it properly, we’ll ask the colonel to give a brief speech. The contribution of Det. Four will have to be stressed. Then the band will play.”

“What band?” Stovers asked.

“Tony Agretti’s band; he sounds as though he could organize one. Then the wife of the Danish commander, who is the most prominent of the ladies up here, will be introduced. After that we’ll push the Penguin out of the hangar. Mrs. Kure will rechristen it properly with a bottle of champagne. Frank will have pictures taken; the crowd will cheer.

“Then the crew of the Penguin will go on board and start the engines. The Det. Four Jollies will fire up, take off, and hover over each side of the airstrip, far enough back so that they don’t create too much air disturbance over the runway. Slowly the Penguin will taxi down the ramp while the band plays again.”

“Not just any piece of music,” Collins interjected. “The Passionate Penguin March. Tony can compose it for us; I know him and he will.”

“The Passionate Penguin March,” Ferguson repeated. “A good rousing tune with a cut from the Air Force song sandwiched somewhere in the middle. Meanwhile the B-17 reaches the end of the runway and does the checklists. Then everything stops, the band is quiet, the choppers hover in position. Presently the engines on the B-17 pick up in tempo, the plane begins to roll forward.”

Captain Tilton understood perfectly. “The only music the sound of her engines,” he continued in Ferguson’s place. “Then, directly in front of the grandstand, if we had one, she lifts her nose and takes off once more — the miracle accomplished, the prisoner of the ice cap freed, and a damn good airplane back in operation once more.”

“We can use her to give multiengine flight checks,” the Dane said. He was an advanced flight instructor in his own country.

“We can run up to visit the guys at Alert, if we can get permission to land,” Feinberg contributed. “We can go weekending down in Sondrestrom; they have some women there and there are dances.”

“She has over a four-thousand-mile range,” Andy Holcomb chimed in. “She can easily go to Iceland, down to McGuire, almost anyplace.”

“The gas will cost,” the Dane declared, “but we have free hangar space, free maintenance, and no crew costs. We can fly her for peanuts.”

“How many will she carry?” Tilton asked of Andy Holcomb.

“Her original crew would be ten, so presumably she could haul twenty warm bodies with no trouble at all. The only limiting factors would be fuselage dimensions and baggage space. We ought to be able to convert the bomb bay into a cargo hold.”

“After we get the landing gear fixed,” Sergeant Stovers cautioned.

The mood had changed; somehow it was assumed by everyone present that the crushing problem would be resolved one way or another. Ferguson went back to the serving line to get some additional dessert.

That afternoon the C-130 went out to Camp Century and delivered a load. It was all very brisk and businesslike, with the ice cap landing no problem at all. While out there Ferguson and Corbin made a detailed inspection on foot of the landing area and found it to be in good condition for further operations. For once the pilot did not need to concern himself that someone would question why he was there and what he was doing. This was his officially assigned job and he was beyond reproach.

When he returned to Thule, Ferguson found Sergeant Feinberg awaiting him. “It occurred to me that we might have a cup of coffee together if you would like, sir,” the big man declared.

“By all means,” Ferguson replied. He experienced a little thrill of satisfaction. He felt like a hard-pressed quarterback who has just seen a long desperation pass taken on the run by his tight end. Obviously Perry Feinberg had thought of something.

They sat down together in a corner of the small passenger terminal. “Sir,” Feinberg began, “I may have an idea concerning the landing-gear problem. It will require a little maneuvering and a flexibility of outlook concerning the regulations.”

“I’ve bent them out of shape already, Sergeant, so one more time shouldn’t matter.”

“Hopefully not, but this time it may be necessary to get into another command area. Before undertaking this, I wanted to ask you, in general terms, if you’re willing to take a reasonable chance.”

“How about yourself?”

Feinberg beamed confidence. “The risk can be minimized; master sergeants do not snitch on one another. But you might be exposed to some criticism if I can’t keep the lid on.”

“Tell me one thing,” Ferguson said. “What are the chances of success?”

Feinberg flexed his shoulder muscles while he framed his reply. “Not too bad, I would say, sir, if everything goes as planned.”

“You think we can get the part?”

“Yes, I do.”

“How soon?”

“Quite soon, if what I have in mind works.”

“Do you want to tell me any more about it?”

“No, sir, because if it comes down to the wire, you will be able to state that you had no personal knowledge of what was going on. And obviously you couldn’t have authorized it if you didn’t know anything about it.”

Ferguson thought. “I see. Boiling it down, you’re giving me an out if I need it.”

“Precisely, sir. One more thing: I’ll have to have that picture of Monica Lee. I trust that it is expendable in a good cause.”

“Only for the sake of the Penguin,” Ferguson declared.

“Obviously, that is what I have in mind.”

“Then take it.”

“Thank you. On a slightly different matter, sir — you will recall the Danish artist we have here, Viggo Skov?”

“Yes. The colonel thought it would be nice if he would paint a picture of the Penguin in flight — to hang in the NCO Club along with a prop.”

“The picture, sir, is well underway despite the change in plans. Viggo has now consented to repaint the design on the Penguin’s nose for us, but a delicate question has arisen. The original is somewhat graphic — you may have noticed.”

“Frankly, no, Perry. It’s almost obliterated.”

“But it can still be made out. Viggo has suggested that he can redo the design with a small modification to make it more acceptable to the middle-class masses, or he can restore it to its original glory, exactly as was — in which case, someone should be standing in front of the nose if any pictures are taken for publication.”

“Sergeant Feinberg,” Ferguson said formally. “We have undertaken collectively to restore The Passionate Penguin to her former proud status as she was. I will not kowtow to the Watch and Ward Society. Furthermore, times have changed — as witness Miss Lee’s picture.”

“Sir, my compliments,” the chief master sergeant said “Allow me to inquire if you have an opening in your crew.”

“Just get the landing-gear fitting; that’s an assignment worthy of your genius.”

Feinberg stood up and became immense. “It will be done, sir,” he promised.

The road to J Site was displaying its usual spring roughness after the long deep freeze of winter. As Sergeant Feinberg drove the vehicle that he had successfully scrounged for his own use, he took in every aspect of the short but spectacular drive.

Not far from the roadway the base of the ice cap took over command of the terrain. From that point it rose onward and upward toward the incredibly blue sky of the High Arctic. The most extraordinary sight from the roadway was not the beginning of the ice cap, but the four enormous radar antennae of J Site itself. When the region had first been surveyed, the promontory on which they now stood had been designated J Site as a convenient means of reference. After the vast BMEWS installation had been built, the name had stuck. It was J Site to everyone at Thule and was seldom referred to in any other way.

The antennae themselves were each much larger than a football field. They were permanently fixed in position at varying angles to each other, but for practical purposes all of them were aimed toward the most likely source of a possible missile attack against the United States — the Soviet Union. Twenty-four hours of every day, every day of every year, the powerful beams from BMEWS swept the sky and the space far above the atmosphere in a continuing, unbroken watchfulness. Seen from the outside BMEWS was static; a series of covered passageways led from one building to another, offering no protection from the temperatures, but at least keeping most of the frequent snowstorms from interfering with local traffic. There was also a huge radome that housed an eighty-five-foot dish able to turn with high precision and considerable speed toward any target above the horizon, or in outer space. The need to maintain unceasing vigilance was the reason for the existence of J Site and for the presence at that extremely remote location of a staff of several hundred men and two women who worked in unbroken shifts to guard the ramparts of Canada and the United States. The support of J Site was the reason for the existence of Thule Air Base and gave it its principal mission.

Sergeant Feinberg parked his truck and went to one of the few entrances into the BMEWS complex. Despite the utter isolation of the site, an armed guard was stationed immediately inside. Feinberg was required to produce his identification, sign in, and state the exact nature of his business. BMEWS took no chances; the colonel in command was acutely aware of the fact that the construction of the very sophisticated and elaborate facility in the extreme Arctic had been something of an industrial miracle and that the cost had been proportionately high. If for any reason the complex was forced to shut down, a whole flank of the North American continent would be left open without its usual safeguards.

Sergeant Feinberg carried a mailing tube in his hand as he turned down one of the tunnels and by means of it made his way to a large maintenance building that, like everything else at BMEWS, had been built to withstand the worst weather extremes that the Arctic could produce. Equipment and supplies were everywhere — every thing likely to be needed at any time had to be kept on hand and at the ready. Most of the vital vehicles were kept inside where they would be protected from the merciless elements outside. Trackmasters were cocked and ready; an ambulance stood directly before the door; a command car with full radio equipment and special tires was poised beside it.

From one end of BMEWS to the other was a considerable distance measured in part by the four immense antennae, but everywhere the spare equipment was stowed in almost perfect order. Sergeant Feinberg paused before a storage room that was rich with the odor of stacked wood. There was a substantial supply in each of the standard sizes, from lath to great timbers, and adjacent to the racks stood all of the woodworking equipment that might be required to make almost anything. Past a fire-alarm point was the entrance to the machine shop.

He went inside without the usual wide smile on his face. His demeanor was serious, as befitted the place where he was. Nothing was ever taken for granted at BMEWS; the whole vast complex had been put there and maintained for years just to catch the one blip that might appear at any moment on one of its scopes. If that were to happen, then data gathered in fractions of a second would be fed to computers and communications established instantly (on an always-open hotline) to NORAD, the North American Air Defense Command inside Cheyenne Mountain near Colorado Springs.

At NORAD the information from BMEWS, plus any supporting information from the other sites — at Clear, Alaska, and in England — would be evaluated as rapidly as trained and whetted human minds could do it. Then, almost at once, the commanding general or his deputy on duty would have to make an awesome decision. He would make it knowing that something was in the air aimed at the United States or Canada, what its trajectory was, its predicted point of impact, and its probable nature. The first incoming shot might be in the form of a salvo, in which case his decision would be easier, but regardless, he would have to commit the nation, notify the President, and do many other things all within the space of a very few minutes. BMEWS could not afford to make even the first mistake.

Inside the machine shop there was an impressive amount of equipment — astonishing to find in northern Greenland. Everything was as well maintained as the rest of the giant facility; even the floor was spotless. As Feinberg came in, a man twice his size came to meet him. He appeared to weigh at least three hundred pounds, but he moved with good coordination and with the air of someone who thoroughly knows his business.

Perry Feinberg was not used to talking to men who were notably larger than himself, but he was entirely comfortable because he knew the quality of the man he had come to see. For once he came right to the point, because that was the way the man he was addressing wanted it. “You’ve heard about the B-17 that we’re rebuilding down the hill.”

The huge man spoke in a rich baritone. “Everyone knows about it. There are bets out all over the place.”

That was a setback, but Sergeant Feinberg met it squarely. “Are you in on any of them?” he asked.

“Not so you’d notice it. Not yet, anyway.”

Feinberg let out a long sigh of relief. “I want to ask a question,” he said. “If you had to make a particular part for that airplane here, would you be able to do it?”

His host eyed him. “Bring in the blueprints and we’ll make the whole damn thing. We’ve got all the aluminum here, and the tools. Obviously something’s busted — what is it?”

“A main landing-gear fitting.”

“Have you got the drawings?”

“No, but out in my truck I’ve got the part itself. It’s cracked.”

The huge man rested his weight on a bench. “Bring it in, together with a work order signed by the colonel, and we’ll duplicate it for you. Is it heat treated?”

“From the general look of it I would say no. Remember that it was originally made more than thirty years ago; they weren’t quite as sophisticated then.”

“All right, I’ll examine it and see which way to go.”

“You have the stock on hand?”

“We’ve got everything; we have to have.”

Feinberg waved his hand. “And the equipment,” he noted.

“Yes, and one thing you forget: we know what the hell we’re doing.”

Perry Feinberg looked around before he continued. “Our colonel has given us his tacit blessing so there’s no sweat about that. But I don’t have a work order.”

“Then get one; simple as that.”

“Perhaps I have something else.”

“There is no something else, Perry, you know that. The boss wants things done right, and so do I.”

“Look, I’m not very sure that I can get a work order — a formal one, that is, but Colonel Kleckner carries weight.”

“He sure does — get him to ask for it.”

“If I have to, I will, but I do have another thought.” He unrolled the picture and laid it out on a workbench.

The powerful man bent over and studied it. “That sure in hell is something,” he admitted, “but Mike Murphy might not appreciate it. He’s pretty square, you know.”

“I do, and he’s going out on the next rotator. He hasn’t seen this; he doesn’t know that it exists.”

“Is that autograph genuine?”

“I’ll cover all bets; a friend of Major Valen’s got it in Hollywood for us.”

“You probably wanted a radio fixed.”

“Right on — but if he saw this, he’d have kittens on the spot.”

“He sure would. And he’s bound to; these will be out in the millions in a little while. It’s a damn good shot and Monica Lee is very popular. He can’t miss it.”

Sergeant Feinberg had the conversation at the critical point and he knew it; everything now depended on how well he presented the next piece of information. “He’s going to miss it,” he said, “because it’s never going to be published. Monica Lee wants to change her image, but her agent will see her dead first. There’s a very strict morality clause in her contract because of the type of roles she usually plays. This clearly would violate it, so her agent unleashed the legal eagles and they bought it back. This is an advance proof that got away. It may be the only one that ever will.”

The man in overalls was thoughtful. “Next to Diahann Carroll, she’s the best-looking woman I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“Damn right,” Sergeant Feinberg agreed, slightly altering his choice of words. “I brought it to show you because I know that you’re a connoisseur and a major collector of the species.”

“There is nothing that equals the beauty of a lovely woman. In this particular instance, there is no vulgarity. No distorted pose, no ultrasuggestive covering-up with a coyly held hand.”

“A very significant point,” Feinberg agreed. “Now, if you can think of any way to turn out that part for us, say in your spare time, and avoid the embarrassment of having to get a work order for something that we can’t prove is a military requirement, it would be an enormous help to us.”

“How about the cost of the stock?”

“We’ll pay for that.”

“I might possibly be able to find a spoiled piece that will do, but don’t count on it; we don’t spoil very much around here.”

“I’m well aware of that. And if you can see your way clear to bend things a little in our direction, then we will express our gratitude with the token gift of this picture for your collection. It is autographed, but the salient point is its rarity. In years to come, you may well possess the one-and-only color photograph of Monica Lee’s cunt in existence.”

It fell silent in the shop. Seconds passed as invisible radar beams of great power noiselessly swept the sky; then the master sergeant in charge of the machine shop made his decision. “It will take some time, perhaps a week.”

By means of a delicately sensitive gesture, Sergeant Feinberg indicated that what could not be helped must be endured.

“It depends on how much time I have,” the massive machinist relented.

Sergeant Feinberg replied to that by very carefully rolling up the striking photograph. “Here is your picture,” he said, with a hairline emphasis on the possessive. “I wouldn’t suggest leaving it lying around.”

“Nothing lies around in this place — anywhere. I have a vehicle; we can ride back to where your car is.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

To the men of Thule the near gift of a World War II B-17 to rebuild represented almost a godsend — it was something to do, a substantial challenge to be met, and an event unique in their lives. To them the long-derelict bomber was a great deal more than an accumulation of parts that might eventually become a working machine; it was a flying machine with a definite personality, a name, and a soul. To the men of Thule the Penguin was a living thing — or would be when they got through with her.

When Chief Master Sergeant Feinberg announced that he had found a source for the broken landing-gear fitting, and that a new one would be forthcoming soon, the restoration work resumed immediately. Wing panels that had withstood weathering for three decades were gone over until they shone like new. Internal structures were inspected and tested until their integrity was proven. New control cables were installed with meticulous care; every pulley over which they passed was examined, serviced, tested, and verified.

When the burly sergeant arrived in his truck, bringing with him the desperately needed new component, he was noticeably reluctant to disclose where and how it had been obtained. It was apparent to everyone who saw it that it was brand-new, but two planes had recently come in with tons of freight and either one could have brought it.

The nose of the B-17 rested on a cradle that held it two feet higher than it would have been if it had been resting on its own landing gear; that made working on the underside easy. Laid out on the floor there was a full-sized pattern of the original name insignia that had once been painted on the nose. Perched on a maintenance stand almost sixteen feet above the floor, Viggo Skov, the Danish artist, was repainting the tail number precisely as it had been. A small crew of men was busy reinstalling the left aileron, which had been fully overhauled, re-covered, and doped the proper aluminum color. When it was finally in place and fastened, they tried the control cables by hand and found that everything worked exactly as it should.

On the long benches two of the power plants had been completely torn down, with hundreds of individual parts laid out in a systematic pattern. Engines number three and four, mounted on stands, were awaiting their turn. On another long bench two of the propellers had been disassembled for overhaul. One set of blades had been reburnished and they were almost brilliant in their apparent newness.

On what had been the flight deck of the bomber so many things had been pulled out that what remained was a skeleton and no more. Not a single instrument was left on the panel, almost all of the control handles were gone, and the switches had been demounted. The pilots’ seats had been removed and the bare floor that remained had been prepared for repainting.

A forklift bearing a sizable crate came into the hangar from the ramp. The operator ran his machine up to the supply area next to where the main work was being done and asked, “Where do you want this?”

Andy Holcomb, the acknowledged engineer in charge, came over. “What is it?” he asked.

“I don’t know, Sergeant, it came up on that last C-141, marked for delivery to Hangar Eight.”

“Then leave it right there until we get it open and find out what it is. Are you sure there’s no name on it?”

“Nope — just ‘Hangar 8’ and that’s all.”

With the help of a Danish worker, Andy pulled the lid open; as he did so, the strong odor of fresh rubber was freed. He worked feverishly to get all of the lumber out of the way and the inner wrappings open. When he had gone far enough to be sure, he let out a shout that brought Ferguson and many of the others almost on the run. The last of the heavy packing paper was torn away to reveal a wooden pallet and on it three brand-new tires — two large ones for the main gear and a much smaller one for the tail wheel.

A calling card was taped to the side of one of the main tires; Ferguson pulled it off and read: To The Passionate Penguin — bappy landings.

And neatly printed below:

It took the still-startled lieutenant several seconds until he remembered the commander of the reserve C-141 crew he had met on the ramp well before the last airlift off the ice cap.

As he stood and looked at the wonderful new tires, and smelled their freshness, he realized that a major uncertainty and been overcome. He had planned to use the thirty-year-old tires because he had no alternative, but he had known in his heart that they might be dangerous. Now that hazard had been swept away.

Sergeant Stovers was not there to share his elation — he was in the mess hall talking with the crew of a Canadian C-130 that was scheduled out to Alert in the morning. “Since you are a communications station,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “I presume that you have an electronics maintenance capability.”

The very tall captain who headed the crew answered. “Yes, of course we do. Our lads are quite good at it, really.”

“Is your bench time fully taken up?”

“I wouldn’t say so. Let me put it this way, Sergeant: we’d be delighted to overhaul the B-17’s radios for you if you’d like. In fact, we’ve already talked about it. But we didn’t want to be forward, particularly since its your project. So we were rather waiting to see if our assistance would be welcome.”

Sergeant Stovers raised his coffee cup. “At this point, sir, I’d say that it’s close to essential. The only man we had who was really qualified to do the job just left on the rotator.

The captain smiled. “Actually, we’d be quite proud to be part of the program. If we can have the sets to take with us, we may be able to get some of them back down to you within the next two weeks or so.”

“We have a lot of good parts in Supply,” Stovers said.

“So have we, and the commander is a noble citizen; he’ll be for it, I’m sure. Any chance of getting a ride later on?”

“You’re a cinch,” Stovers declared. “Get an approval from your CO and we’ll fly her up and visit you. Then we’ll hop everybody that wants to go.”

His Canadian counterpart lifted a hand. “Let’s finish our coffee first,” he said.

In two weeks’ time The Passionate Penguin stood in Hangar 8 on her own landing gear, her three brand-new tires filling the whole area with an aroma of freshness. Once more her wings reached out over a hundred feet in span and it is doubtful that they ever shone as brilliantly as they did then. On the flight bridge the overhauled control yokes had been reinstalled. They moved easily with the precision of fine machinery, and as they did, the control surfaces responded with microscopic accuracy.

Colonel Kleckner himself tried them out personally and could not restrain a wide smile. “That’s a remarkable job,” he declared. “It would pass any inspection anywhere.”

Lieutenant Ferguson, who was his guide at that moment, responded. “We know it, sir. We want you to be fully aware that nothing is being done casually. Everything is being checked three times, at least, and the final inspection team is demanding perfection. This is going to be the best B-17 that ever took to the air.”

“You aren’t writing home about this are you?” the colonel asked.

“No, sir!”

“Well don’t; it might be better to keep this entirely to ourselves. In fact, Captain Tilton got an inquiry through the PR office in the head shed asking about the B-17 we were building up here.”

Ferguson felt a sudden taste of shock. “How did he handle that, sir?”

“I believe that he reported something about a model building project that someone had dreamed up. The size of the model was not specified.”

“Sir, he’s a helluva good man.”

“I’m fully aware of that, Scotty. How about the instruments? If they can be salvaged, they’ll need complete overhauls.”

“The guys up at J Site offered to do that for us, sir; they have full facilities. In fact, the artificial horizon’s back already. The vacuum system hasn’t been overhauled yet, so it’s still out on the bench — under cover, of course.”

“Batteries?”

“Supply has them.”

“How about the wiring?”

“Every bit of it is being replaced, sir, and we have new bulbs for all of the lights. Using an outside power cart, we’ve cycled the landing gear more than fifty times without any trace of a malfunction.”

The colonel looked around him. “You’re going to end up with a virtually new airplane.”

“That’s exactly what we have in mind, sir. She will have zero time on everything.”

“I’ll drop in again,” the colonel promised.

“Do that, sir — we’d like to have you.” He would have said more, but his mind was fully occupied with the fuel-cell tests that were the next thing on the program.

For the next three weeks the normal work of Thule Air Base went forward. Ferguson made several trips out to Camp Century, both with his own crew and with Boyd’s to be sure that everyone was fully checked out on ice cap operations. Otherwise, he spent each spare minute in Hangar 8, following every step of the operation and doing as much himself as he could possibly manage to fit in.

The biggest single event, at the end of that time, was the remounting of the number three engine. The crane lifted it easily into position and the actual installation work, in the relative comfort of the hangar, was comparatively simple. All of the controls were hooked up and all of the plumbing was meticulously recoupled. By all reasonable theory, the engine should run. It would have been well to try it out on a test stand first, but that had presented too many problems and the decision had been made to run it in, if possible, in position on the airframe.

The propeller that went onto the end of the shaft appeared to be brand-new. It was far from an easy job to reinstall all of the prop controls, but the work was done with the same enthusiasm and care that had characterized every accomplishment along the way. When at last the job was finished, it was past 2400 hours and everyone was exhausted.

The following morning was Saturday, which meant that most of the personnel would be off work; by 1000 hours the grapevine had produced an audience of more than two hundred gathered around the closed door of Hangar 8. At 1012 hours the main door was opened and the Penguin was pushed out. With her single restored engine once more facing a point somewhere above the horizon, she was grotesquely incomplete, but to the men who had been working on her for so many weeks, she was the most beautiful aircraft that had ever challenged the sky.

His palms wet with perspiration, Ferguson sat in the left-hand seat, using the original cushion that had been the first thing he had personally recovered from the hopeless wreck on the ice cap. When the twenty-man ground crew had pushed the plane into the position that he wanted, he pushed against the brakes and got an immediate response. He tested the controls for the hundredth time, just for the joy of feeling them move so smoothly. Then he sat still while the battery cart was wheeled up and plugged in.

Andy Holcomb appeared on the ramp in front of the nose. “Anytime,” he called up.

Ferguson heard him through the open window. In response he checked visually and then called out, “Clear!”

He pumped the prime and then activated the starter. The freshly rebuilt unit responded immediately; for the first time in three decades the heavy propeller began to turn. The crowd on the ground was still — waiting to see what, if anything, was going to happen. When he judged that the time was right, Ferguson turned the ignition switch to BOTH and held a deep breath in his lungs.

The propeller continued to turn slowly under the impetus of the starter; the engine remained dead and still. Then there was a sharp retort — almost like a pistol shot-and a burst of smoke came out of the exhaust. In four seconds there was another, then several. Ferguson cut off the starter, but after a few more erratic bursts, the engine came to a halt.

“Again!” he shouted to the ground crew. In response, Holcomb drew a circle in the air with his right hand. Ferguson reengaged the starter, counted six passes of a propeller blade through the copilot’s window, and then turned on the ignition once again.

He was answered almost at once by a staccato burst of sound. There were sharp gaps, but the propeller began to spin far faster. With his hand holding the throttle from underneath, which he had found to be the only feasible position, he nursed fuel to the struggling power plant, giving it more when it needed it, cutting back at once when it threatened to flood. He was more used to turbine engines, but he understood this one and he had put in long hours of work helping to clean every component and put it all back together in correct sequence.

The roughness peaked and then fell away; through the open window there came the almost steady beat of the 1,200-horsepower power plant that was spinning its propeller into a silver disc. Ferguson felt the airframe vibrate and knew that life had returned to it. He mind-vaulted back to the bitterly cold morning when he had first explored the flight deck of The Passionate Penguin and had found the controls as cold and rigid as stone monuments in the dead of winter.

Now they moved.

He heard the cheer outside, but it meant little to him. It was the engine that he heard as it settled down into smoothness. He let it run for five minutes before he tried the propeller pitch control. The blades responded — he could feel it. By gradual stages he tested the propeller all of the way up to full feather and back; as far as he could tell, everything was perfect. He ran the engine in for a full hour at slow speed; during that time almost everyone at Thule came by to have a look. A number of vehicles came down from J Site and one from the incredibly isolated P Mountain station. Several times more Ferguson cycled the propeller and each time it responded — apparently flawlessly.

Corbin came up and took over the copilot’s seat. In response Ferguson relinquished the run-in test to his partner. Corbin had a good deal of time on small piston-engined aircraft and held a civilian flight instructor’s rating. Also, he had worked like a beaver on the engine rebuilding.

After an hour and a half, Corbin shut down the engine and secured the proper controls. When he came off the flight deck there was a grin on his face that ran almost from ear to ear.

In the NCO Club that evening, Tom Collins called a meeting to which ten key invitees responded. Ferguson was there of course, and his whole crew; some of Det. 4 sat in, along with Collins, the indispensable Sergeant Feinberg, and a powerful Dane named Karsten Thorlund, who was the acknowledged head of the civilians engaged in the rebuilding project.

When the drinks had been served and everything was ready, Collins took the floor. “Gentlemen,” he began, “from the very start of this thing, we’ve been going on the very sound premise that we were going to restore the Penguin to all of her former glory, just as she was.”

“Amen,” Sergeant Stovers said over his beer.

“Now,” Tom went on, “I want to propose an exception — if we can do it. You all know how much we’re indebted to the Canadians up at Alert for overhauling the electronics for us. But there’s a big problem; the frequencies have all changed and so has the whole system of radio navigation. Everything that the Penguin has is low frequency; she can tune in all of the range legs, but there aren’t any more left.”

He waited for some response to that, but everyone else chose to remain quiet. He was right and they all knew it; a new electronic age had been born since the bomber had been abandoned on the ice cap.

Tom continued. “We’re going to fly her, of course, and when the story gets out about what’s been done here, I suspect that the Penguin is going to be one of the most famous planes in the world. She’s going to have to go to a lot of different places and make personal appearances; you guys all remember the Navy’s Truculent Turtle and how much mileage they got out of her.”

“Definitely,” Sergeant Feinberg said.

“So baby is going to have to have some modern electronics; without them she won’t be able to communicate.”

“Looking at it that way,” Ferguson said, thinking aloud, “she’s going to need, at the very least, dual OMNI, TACAN with DME, in all probability single sideband since she’s long-legged with more than a four-thousand-mile range, and at least one transponder: she’s got to be able to squawk.”

“All of which adds up to about thirty grand even without the VORTAC,” Corbin declared. “And none of that gear is surplus.”

“First,” Thorlund interjected in a rich baritone, “we have to decide if we want to install modern electronics or not.”

There was some discussion in response, but even the die-hard traditionalists had to concede that a four-engined aircraft equipped with radios that no one could hear and that were unable to receive any current communications would be hopelessly handicapped. “She’d never be able to file IFR,” Collins summed up, “and that’s grossly beneath her dignity, if nothing else.”

“We have to do it,” Corbin said. “I’ve been thinking the same thing, but I didn’t want to rock the boat.”

“How about the radios we have?” Stovers asked.

Ferguson answered him. “Anything she can use she keeps. Otherwise…”

“Has anybody got any ideas?” Holcomb asked.

In the thick silence that followed not even Sergeant Perry Feinberg was able to come up with a suggestion. He was, however, thinking. “Since she’s out of the Air Force inventory,” he said, “we can’t draw the gear in the usual way.”

“Isn’t there a crashed airplane somewhere between here and Alert?” Tiny Heneveld of Det. 4 asked.

“Yes,” Corbin answered. “I’ve heard about it. But that stuff has been through an honest-to-gosh crash and it won’t be worth an empty pea pod. You can throw it into the chop suey, and that’s all.”

“Not quite,” Mike Turner said.

“Expound,” Perry Feinberg invited.

“Simple: when you’ve got a piece of radio gear that doesn’t work, you turn it in to be fixed. If they can’t fix it, they issue you a new one.”

Chief Master Sergeant Feinberg sat stock still while a dawning light crossed his broad face, then he turned slowly and looked at the young helicopter pilot with new respect and possibly a certain amount of awe. “Do you realize what you have just done?” he asked. “You have forever settled a question that has confronted the Air Force since its inception. You have, at this sacred moment, proven for all time the indisputable worth and value of second lieutenants. It is a monumental event-and to think that I am present here to witness it!”

“How will we get the sets?” Corbin asked.

“Difficult, but possible,” Feinberg answered. “If all else fails, I have Eskimo friends and they, in turn, have dog teams. Something will be worked out.”

On the first day that the sun remained above the horizon long enough to give adequate daylight at midnight, the number two engine was successfully tested. With two power plants available, Ferguson made a ground phone call to the tower and then, armed with the necessary permission, he taxied the Penguin to the end of the runway and ran up. When he was satisfied, he turned as if for takeoff, started down the 10,000-foot strip and ran for over a mile at fifty knots with the tail lifted into flying position. It was the most exciting ride he had ever had; only by the exercise of great willpower did he keep himself from pushing the throttles all the way forward to see if she would come off the ground. She was empty of any payload and while she was shy some 2,400 horsepower, she was also relieved of some 5,000 pounds of engine weight. Probably she would have been able to do it, but the time was not yet.

When he went to bed that night, Ferguson lay on his back and looked up at the ceiling, his mind churning and his body actively resisting any approach of sleep. He was, at that moment, in love, and the object of his affections was not a young woman, but a machine.

Even at minimum wage scales, the amount of work that had already gone into the rebuilding of the Penguin represented far more than the aircraft itself could possibly be worth — that is, if she were to be considered as so much aluminum, so many thousands of rivets, so many miles of wiring, so many pounds of various fluids, so much rubber, and so many other ingredients. But it was impossible for him to think of her that way. Skilled pilot that he was, he had never known any airplane as well as he knew that B-17 and the whole, to him, was vastly greater than the sum of the parts.

He recalled reading about a railroad engineer who, upon his retirement, had asked to buy the locomotive that had been his constant working partner for thirty years. Because steam power was going out anyway, the railroad had given him the engine. Together with his friends, the engineer had laid two miles of temporary track, from the railroad yards to his home. On a great day in his life he had driven the engine for the last time, over the impromptu rails and onto the side yard of his property. During his retirement his familiar iron friend was his faithful companion. It, too, took up a new career and became an enormous attraction for all of the neighborhood children.

A week later the original nose insignia of The Passionate Penguin had been repainted in brilliant fresh colors. The third engine was ready to be reinstalled and tested and most of the instruments were entirely overhauled and certified accurate. The C-130 Hercules made a trip to Anchorage, Alaska, for some essential maintenance; Captain Boyd and his crew took her almost literally across the pole on a long nonstop flight plan that covered some of the most desolate parts of the globe. In order to at least give the appearance of doing something officially useful, Scott Ferguson spent considerable time in the Det. 4 hangar familiarizing himself with the HH-3 helicopter. He made two trips to the Eskimo village of Kanak and enjoyed every moment of both experiences.

The number one engine ran like a dream. When it had been carefully tested, and when the crew working on number four reported no problems with their rebuilding chore, Ferguson went to see the colonel. At the request of both men, Captain Tilton, the Information Officer, was also present.

“Sir,” Ferguson began. “The Penguin is on schedule — a little ahead of it, in fact. All of the instruments check out, three of the four engines are running like Swiss watches, and the structure of the airframe couldn’t possibly be better. You know the quality of the work that’s gone into her.”

“I certainly do,” the colonel agreed, “and that brings up a point I was going to ask you: are you going to paint United States Air Force down her side?”

Ferguson hesitated. “I would appreciate some guidance from you on that, sir,” he said.

“Well, this is unofficial, of course, but if she did have the Air Force name on her, it might simplify getting fuel when you need it and so on. Avionics, for instance.”

“She is a war bird,” Tilton said. “The C-47’s that were her contemporaries are still flying, in many instances, and they carry the Air Force name.”

“Did you say avionics, sir?” Ferguson asked.

“Well, I can’t have an aircraft flying around up here without suitable communications equipment and navigational gear. But I also can’t have any equipment issued to what might be considered a civilian bird.”

Ferguson saw the light. “Sir, the Penguin originally joined the Air Force when it was the Army Air Corps and she never quit. The name goes on.”

“That’s very good, because I called over to Anchorage to have them send some gear back on the C-130. I couldn’t very well report that it was for a bomber, so I told them that she was a rescue vehicle. Do you recall the Dumbo B-17’s that carried lifeboats underneath them during the final stages of World War II?”

“Come to think of it, sir — yes!”

Captain Tilton recognized his moment. “We have the celebration laid out, sir, and it looks very good, if I may say so. The painting of the B-17 in flight has been completed; we want to start the festivities with a special breakfast for all hands who took part in the work; a few have left, but we can’t help that. At the conclusion of the meal, we’d like to have you unveil the painting. This will be at the NCO Club. Champagne will be served — to all but the flight crew.

“The formal ceremonies will start at 1400 hours at the flight line. Chaplain Valen will open with prayer, then Det. Four will be given a plaque for their part in bringing in the wing roots. Sergeant Feinberg will speak briefly on the project, how it came about, and pay tribute to Lieutenant Ferguson for having inspired the whole thing. Lieutenant Jane Miles at J Site will be Miss B-17 for the day. You know her?”

“I do,” the colonel said.

“Then, sir, you, on behalf of the base, and Commander Kure, representing Denmark, will escort Mrs. Kure to the hangar. The doors will be opened and the aircraft will be rolled out onto the ramp. With the photographers on the job, Mrs. Kure will rechristen the Penguin.”

“Wait a minute,” the colonel interjected. “Mrs. Kure is a very refined lady — have you forgotten the design on the nose of the plane?”

“Sir, we discussed that with the commander and he assured us that it would be all right.”

“OK, then. Continue.”

Tilton consulted his notes. “After Mrs. Kure has done the honors, the band will play the Air Force song. As soon as that is over, the crew will march out in formation and stand beside the B-17 while the national anthem is played. This will all be filmed, of course. After the anthem, the crew will board the aircraft and start engines. The tower will give clearance. As the plane taxies to the end of the runway, the band will play The Passionate Penguin March. Tony did a wonderful job on that — it’s a little suggestive of the ‘Grand March’ in Aida.”

Tilton paused for effect and discovered that he had the colonel’s complete attention. “Then, sir, everything will be quiet while the Penguin runs up, clears the tower, and moves into position. We’ll have the tower show her a green light, so that everyone can see it.”

“You might want to hook up the communications into the PA system,” the colonel suggested.

“Excellent, sir! We should have thought of that.” Tilton made a note. “Then, after the green light the tower will also voice clear the Penguin for takeoff. That will be the most dramatic moment: she will start down the runway and time her takeoff so that she will be just opposite the spectators when she lifts into the air. After she lands, the final event planned is a gala dinner for all hands. And we would like very much to have you sign an order, sir, restoring the Penguin to operational status. The rescue-craft idea is outstanding: if someone is taken sick at Alert, she can go up and get him. They don’t have a hospital, and we do.”

“When is this to be?” the colonel asked.

Ferguson was alertly proud. “Anytime after twenty days, sir. We want to run all of the final tests to be absolutely sure that she’s one hundred percent.”

“So ordered,” the colonel declared.

Airman Robert Elliott did not want to leave Thule. His tour would be over in two more days, but missing the rollout and flight of the B-17 represented a material disappointment. He asked for, and was denied, a thirty-day extension of his tour. As a consequence, he departed as scheduled on the rotator and duly arrived at McGuire Air Force Base some hours later.

Since he was automatically on furlough, he did not wait for a military ride; he took ground transportation to Philadelphia International Airport and from there caught a 707 bound for Los Angeles. As he sat on the cushions, admiring the stewardesses and reflecting on civilian life, Airman Elliott began to think of the many things he was going to tell his family when he got off the plane. When his lunch was served he tied in with a willing appetite, but he could not forget the many hours of work he had so gladly put in helping to clean and polish the fuselage of the noble B-17.

There was a civilian, a man in his fifties, seated with him. The middle seat was empty and had been folded down to make a common table. That invited conversation and Elliott was more than willing. He exchanged the usual pleasantries with his companion and then, in answer to a question, told him that he was returning home from Thule.

“I understand that that is a very tough tour,” the civilian said.

“Not so bad, sir. The food is all right, and you get used to it after a while.”

“But it still must be awfully boring.”

Elliott dropped his voice. “Not this time, sir. You see, we had something going.”

“A sports tournament?”

“Oh no, something much better than that.” He stopped, remembering the agreement that nothing would be said or written stateside until the rebuilding was an accomplished fact, but it was all but done now and he had already, to a degree at least, committed himself. “We got into an airplane rebuilding project,” he added, and then wished that he hadn’t.

“Hey, that sounds like fun!”

Obviously the civilian was all right. “It was, sir, a lot. It was really something to do.”

“Tell me about it.”

Elliott thought quickly, but it was a friendly inquiry and nothing more. And the story was a wonderful one. He told it. not in detail, but with enough particulars to convey the basic idea.

The civilian displayed considerable interest. “They aren’t going to try and fly it again, are they?” he asked. The tone of his voice betrayed a concern that was an immediate warning.

Elliott all but wished himself dead. “I don’t think so,” he almost lied, “at least not for some time.” He turned his full attention back to his food tray. When the man he had been talking to had nothing more to say, and appeared to be thinking deeply, Elliott held his lips hard together, shut his eyes, and prayed fervently. Every bit of joy had gone out of his life and he was almost afraid to face his parents. He would not dare tell them one thing about the B-17.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

In stunned, silent shock, Thule Air Base carried on with its assigned mission. The door to Hangar 8 remained closed; for several days no one entered it unless he was required to do so.

The reenlistment office reported that no one had been in, not even the career personnel who had chosen the Air Force as their life’s work.

When the base theater had a flying film booked, almost no one showed up to see the picture.

The consumption of alcoholic beverages at the clubs increased to the point where the medical officers recommended to the commander that some counteraction should be taken. There were three traffic accidents during a period when such incidents were all but unknown.

The personnel officer received so many applications for transfer, and so many sets of early retirement papers, he went in some haste to see the base commander.

“Colonel,” he reported, “as long as I’ve been in the Air Force, I’ve never seen morale go to pieces like this. Look here, sir.” He handed over a formal document.

Colonel Kleckner glanced at it and registered genuine surprise. “I can’t believe it,” he said.

“Well, there it is: Sergeant Perry S. Feinberg putting in to leave the service.”

It was a stunning shock. “I’ve been under the impression that the Air Force was his whole life,” the colonel said quietly.

“I agree with you, sir, I’m sure that it was. But if this thing has gotten so bad that even Sergeant Feinberg can’t stand up under it, then Thule Air Base is falling apart. No reflection on you, sir. We all know that it wasn’t your fault in any way.”

“I never would have believed it of Feinberg,” the colonel said, half to himself.

“It’s a clincher, sir, I admit. Is there anything we can do about it?”

The colonel sat very still and thought hard for several more seconds, then he issued an order. “Send Sergeant Feinberg to see me,” he directed.

When the sergeant reported, he snapped to attention before the colonel’s desk, saluted, and said crisply, “Sergeant Feinberg reporting to the colonel as ordered, sir.”

The colonel returned the salute. “At ease, Sergeant, sit down.”

“Yes, sir.” Sergeant Feinberg sat with strict protocol and remained straight in his chair. Colonel Kleckner ordered two coffees to be brought in, and then closed the door to his office.

“Sergeant,” the colonel continued when he was behind his desk once more, “this is a strictly confidential meeting; you will not repeat one word of it, in any form, outside this office.”

“Understood, sir.”

“At any time, or under any circumstances.”

“No, sir — under no circumstances whatsoever.”

The colonel remained silent until a tap on the door announced the arrival of the coffee. After it had been delivered, and the door was again shut, the colonel continued. “I am aware that the morale at Thule is in bad condition.”

“It’s gone straight to hell in a bucket, sir. Beyond the point of retrievability I would say, sir.”

“And it has hit you personally.”

“I’m terminating my career, sir.”

“Drop the formality, Perry — this is on a man-to-man basis.”

“In that case, sir, I’m going to get my ass out of here as soon as the Lord will let me.”

The colonel drank some of his coffee. “I don’t blame you one damn bit; I wish I could do the same. But you know that I can’t. However, there are some things that I can do; a base commander does enjoy certain privileges.”

“Such as, sir?”

“Up to a point, I can make waves. I have a few friends who sit higher on the totem pole than I do.”

“Colonel, do I understand correctly that you’re prepared to go to bat for us?”

“The United States Air Force,” Colonel Keckner said distinctly, “is made up of fighting men; that’s what we’re trained to do.”

“Sir, I’m listening intently.”

“Then hear this: I have been following closely every step of the work you have been doing on that B-17, ever since you came back with the first engine. A prop I could understand, but when you brought in an engine, with all of the work that that must have involved out on the ice cap under severe conditions, I understood what was up. Frankly, I didn’t think you could do it or even come close — I’ll admit privately that you took me on that one.”

He paused, but Feinberg said nothing.

“Perry, I’ve personally inspected the work as it’s gone forward and I know the records of the men who have been handling the technical requirements. The reconstruction job has been uncompromising and that airplane, in my opinion, is going to be entirely airworthy and safe.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Now all I have to do is to convince certain other people of that fact. So here’s what I want you to do: you may leak the fact, very cautiously, that all may not be lost as yet. Then I want you to withdraw your retirement papers. I’m not ordering you to do that-I can’t — but I’m requesting it. I need a con artist now of unqualified capability and I don’t have to look very far to find him.”

“And then, sir?”

“I want you to do your best to get the troops to complete the job they started. There’s one more engine to be installed and run in, new avionics to be installed and tested, and some instrument work to be gone over. How about the wiring and other connections behind the instrument panel?”

“Every bit of it has been overhauled, Colonel, and replaced if the slightest doubt existed.”

“Did you complete the fuel-cell tests?”

“Yes, sir, they checked out one hundred percent. It was a new airplane, you know, when it was ditched on the ice cap. She had only a few hours on her.”

“I want the job finished — and I’m not going to look too critically at the work records for the next two or three weeks, in case someone happens to be in Hangar Eight instead of somewhere else.”

“That won’t be necessary, sir.”

“Can you con them into doing it?”

“With your assurance, sir, that I’m not selling them down the river, I can.”

“Then do it. You are at liberty to make it known, discreetly, that I am taking a personal interest and plan to do what I can to have the curse lifted. I have a leave coming up; I may take part of it paying a visit to Norton.”

Eleven days later, at 2035 hours, Lieutenant Scott Ferguson stood alone in Hangar 8. The overhead lights were reflected brilliantly by the surfaces of the apparently brand-new B-17 that stood in proud glory on the concrete flooring. She was no longer consigned to the depressed area, she occupied the best spot the hangar had to offer. That afternoon Ferguson had had the airplane out on the ramp and, with the help of Corbin, Holcomb, Jenkins, and Stovers, he had checked her out completely. All of the engines had been run, all of the instruments had been tested, all of the avionics had been verified as far as had been possible on the ground. He had taxied her up and down the field several times and twice he had had her on the runway, trying her out just under flying speed. She hadn’t had the power and the sophistication of the C-130 Hercules, of course, but she had proven one thing to his satisfaction: she was an airplane worthy of any sky that the world had to offer.

He looked at her now, rested his hand against the side of her fuselage, and then looked up at the brilliantly repainted insignia. “And fuck the whole goddamn air-safety branch too,” he said aloud. “Until they get their thumbs out of their asses and learn what the score is.”

He felt better after that. He did not yet know that Colonel Kleckner had, within the past hour, had a final answer to his well-supported request for reconsideration of the decision concerning the B-17. Norton had said “No” with force and clarity. Furthermore, it was made completely clear that the subject was closed. It was suggested that the revived bomber be shipped out on a convenient vessel to a supply depot. There it would be considered as a possible exhibit for the Air Force museum at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base. Disassembly was recommended.

Colonel Kleckner sat in his office with his counterpart, Colonel Jason of the United States Army. The door was again closed and the discussion was private. “Now that’s the situation,” Colonel Kleckner said. “For the moment I’m sitting on Norton’s final decision; if I let that one out of the bag, then morale all over this base is going to hit rock bottom — which is about where I am right now on this whole thing.”

“How can I help?” Jason asked.

“By creating a diversion. You see, Jack, within the next sixty days a good forty percent of the personnel who worked on restoring the B-17 will be rotated back stateside to other assignments. Once they are out of here, and replaced with new people who had no stake in the job, the tension will be proportionately less. So every week that goes by without an explosion is an added period of grace.”

“Who know about this?”

“The two or three communications people who handled the message from Norton; I have the lid on them. I also notified the chaplains for obvious reasons. Now, it would help immensely if you and your crew at Camp Century could manage to kick up a storm — to require a lot of support and keep my hands fully occupied.”

“As a matter of fact, Jim, I’ve been deliberately going the other route — keeping a low profile so as not to upset you and your operation too much. There is a great deal we could ask for, and to our benefit.”

“Then start asking. Bring people in and out; create some action. If anyone has so much as a sore throat, call for a medevac. How do you read me?”

“I read you five-square, Jim, on the same frequency. To start with, I would like to rotate my people back here for R and R — for a good base exchange, for some different food, for a chance to see some daylight. Perhaps you could lay on some recreational trips in the vicinity and delegate people to take our guys out to see the sights.”

“Rest and recreation at Thule is something new, I must admit — but we can do it, as of now. Just give my people something to do, and something else to think about.”

“We will: I’ll have my PE officer get up some teams to challenge Thule in every sport we can think of.”

“Excellent! That’s what I need, Jack. I can’t sit on this forever, but I want the blow to be as easy as I can make it.”

“Is there any chance of your air-safety people changing their minds?”

“None whatever — I asked to have a senior engineering officer come up here to inspect the B-17 himself and see what a phenomenal job our people did on it, but they wouldn’t go along.”

Jason got up. “We’ll start making waves as of tomorrow,” he promised. “I’ll keep it up until you say ‘when.’ ”

“God bless you,” Colonel Kleckner concluded.

In a matter of days the activity at Thule was redoubled. The base swarmed with Army men who were there on a variety of different assignments. An Army chaplain preached the morning Protestant sermon to an increased congregation. Several hiking parties were organized to go up Mount Dundas. Captain Tilton, who did not directly know the reason for all this, but who could make a shrewd guess, increased the publication frequency of Thule Times to weekly and added more pages to cover the Army activities. An interservice sports tournament drew a good number of participants. While all of this was going on, each week the rotator brought fresh personnel and took back some of the old hands who had been engaged in Operation Penguin.

During this time the days began to grow darker at midnight and the temperatures that had been reaching the mid-fifties were sinking steadily. A mild Phase Alert occurred, giving warning that before long Thule would again be in the fierce grip of the Arctic, with its bitter, savage winds and the blackness of unrelieved night.

Colonel Kleckner had slightly less than two months to go on his own tour, but he still had not released the information that the B-17 had been permanently grounded. His playing for time had been at least partially successful; more than thirty percent of the rebuilders had left the base and those who remained had probably drawn their own conclusions. When he checked his personnel charts, the colonel saw that in another three weeks he would lose four of his best NCO’s, all of whom had elected to return to civilian life. They were experienced and valuable career men, but they had had it with the Air Force and they did not mind saying so.

In six weeks a major segment of Det. 4 would be replaced en masse; one week after that Sergeant Feinberg would be on the outbound list. The two C-130 crews were intact and no orders had been cut to relieve them; the Army was still busy at Camp Century and some colder-weather experiments had been scheduled.

At 1535 hours on Thursday afternoon, Angelo in Base Weather put out a notification of a probable incoming phase. New personnel were immediately rebriefed on the exact meaning of Arctic storms and of the acute danger that they represented. Once again the story was told of the cook who had attempted to run from one building to another ninety feet distant during a Phase Two without bothering to put on his arctic clothing. His frozen body had been recovered by rescue crews a few hours later.

Phase Alert was declared at 2120 hours. The temperature was plummeting and the winds were growing rapidly into howling intensity. Announcement of Phase One conditions followed eighteen minutes later. The base movie at once shut down, the library closed, and all personnel were advised to return to their quarters without delay. The base taxi service went into high gear to get everyone delivered in minimum time.

At 2210 hours conditions had deteriorated drastically and the weather section declared Phase Two. In Building 708 the command post was opened and the head count of all persons at Thule was activated. By that time the raging storm outside was hammering against the well-protected windows, and the more experienced hands knew that a full-flung Phase Three was a definite possibility. The Trackmaster crews were already with their vehicles, ready to respond to any calls for rescue assistance.

Four men who had been in a six-pack truck en route from J Site were the cause of concern until they phoned in that they had, per regulations, taken shelter in one of the phase shacks along the road. After a check with Weather, the colonel dispatched a Trackmaster to recover them and bring them back to base.

The head count was completed in thirty-nine minutes; everyone had been accounted for. Lieutenant Kane, the Transportation Officer, shut down the last of the taxi service and ordered all vehicles off the roads until further notice — rescue equipment excepted.

At two minutes after midnight the PA system came on with the expected announcement that Phase Three was in effect. The rage of the Arctic weather took complete command of Thule and no one dared to venture outside for any reason whatsoever. The Army detachment reported from Camp Century that everything had been secured as far as possible and that all personnel were safe in their barracks under the ice.

In his own quarters, the colonel found it hard to sit still. He had a pile of work with him, but none of it was urgent. Thule was his command and he was responsible for it in every respect that dealt with the United States Air Force, but he was still grateful that he would not have to go through another year facing the grimness and the isolation of the extreme Arctic.

He thought about the immense amount of work that had gone into Operation Penguin and the acute disappointment that had been handed down to the men who had given so much of themselves to accomplish the near impossible. He would have enjoyed his tour a great deal more if it had not been for that.

He called Weather and asked Angelo for an indication as to the duration of the storm. The reply he got was not encouraging: Phase Three would be in effect for at least another eight hours and very likely much longer than that. It was highly doubtful that the rotator would be able to come in on time or take out the relieved personnel on schedule. Thule, J Site, P Mountain, and certainly Alert, more than four hundred miles still farther north, were all catching hell and the end was not in sight.

In the morning the phase rations were broken out. In Building 708 the food was not too bad since most of the men had refrigerators in their rooms and usually a hot plate or small grill of some kind. Coffee, hot cocoa, fried-ham sandwiches, and a good many other things were to be had. Everything was shared and the enforced day off was made as livable as possible. Det. 4 had its usual poker game going; Frank Tilton was busy at the typewriter putting together something he did not choose to discuss; Major Valen was preparing his sermon for the following Sunday. After an impromptu meal of phase rations was finished, the evening broke down into an assortment of minor personal activities. Most of the men went to bed early and thought about home.

Shortly before 1200 hours the following day, five of the men of Det. 4 tapped on the door of the colonel’s quarters. Invited to enter and sit down, they made themselves as comfortable as possible on what chairs there were, and on the edges of the few pieces of furniture.

“Colonel,” Tom Collins began. “We’ve been waiting a helluva long time to hear some further news about the Penguin. Norton turned us down again, is that right?”

“Yes,” Colonel Kleckner admitted, “and they won’t reconsider the matter. I tried everything I could think of, and got in touch with some pretty good personal friends, but I couldn’t move them. The bird is grounded.”

“Permanently, we take it.”

“I’m afraid so. They’ve recommended that we disassemble her and ship her out by sea to Wright-Pat for inclusion in the Air Force museum.”

“How long ago, sir?”

“Actually, quite some time. But no convenient vessel seemed to put into port when the water was open. At least not after I got the final message.”

“Then we’re busted.”

“Yes.”

“Does Scotty Ferguson know this?” Ron Cunningham asked.

The colonel shook his head. “I haven’t told him so directly.”

John Schoen was grim. “It’s going to tear him up,” he said. “I’m sure he’s guessed, but… damn it to hell.”

“I agree,” the colonel responded. “It’s like that sometimes.”

Bob Seligman spoke up. “Colonel, we pretty much concluded that this was the case. When this storm is over, we’re going to throw one hell of a party in honor of the Penguin anyway. At the club. Will you come?”

“Positively. At least we can unveil the painting and hang it properly.”

“That’s what we had in mind,” Seligman said.

By mid-afternoon of the following day the storm was stepped down to Phase Two. That in itself offered very little additional liberty, but it was an indication that the mess hall might be open that night. The colonel called Weather once more and was told that he could expect a downgrade to Phase One sometime around 1800 hours. As soon as he had that information, he called Commander Kure and relayed it; the commander in turn advised that if the forecast held up, a hot meal would be prepared for all hands as soon as the storm had abated to Phase One intensity.

The forecast was good; Phase One was declared at 1815 and very shortly thereafter Thule once more began to show signs of external life. The storm was still powerful, but vehicles were able to crawl cautiously down the roads and the mess hall was ablaze with bright lights.

Because time was getting short for many of the people concerned, the junior officers’ party at the NCO Club in honor of The Passionate Penguin was laid on without delay. It was announced that the theme would be the Fifties, with all appropriate costumes, music, and song. Obviously the resources for any kind of special dress were extremely limited at Thule, but there was a faint air of desperation about the whole thing that simply ignored any restrictions. By the end of the week everything had been prepared and the long, narrow private dining room at the club had been set up with the best that the facility had to offer. At one end of the room the painting of the Penguin had been placed on a easel and then covered with an appropriate drape. Red napkins carefully folded into cylinders stood at each place; the silverware was sparkling clean. For a dinner arrangement several hundred miles north of the Arctic Circle, it was an impressive display.

The participants and guests began to arrive a little after 1800 hours and took their ease at the bar. Uniforms were conspicuously absent; striped shirts had been broken out, loud ties had been unearthed, and work pants had been used to create a costume effect. The PA system poured out the music of Chuck Berry and the two bartenders produced concoctions to suit the rapidly growing trade. A new cocktail named “the Penguin’s Playmate” had been created for the occasion and was tried out with ironic frequency. By 1900 hours the mood of most of those present had been softened somewhat, but Det. 4 had not yet put in an appearance.

Dinner was announced and the men filed in. The carefully prepared room was admired as the place cards were read. As the men began to seat themselves, sounds were heard from the lobby; presently Det. 4 came streaming in, loudly and boisterously, almost the perfect epitome of a street gang. They had all turned their flying jackets inside out so that the international orange liners became flashy jackets. On the back of each was a bold patch that read PHARAOHS. Their pants were as outlandish an assortment as the Far Arctic could produce; their hair was slicked back and their faces were smeared with grime. They shouted and pushed, they snarled at each other and anyone who got in their way, they upset chairs as they went.

One man grabbed a bottle of wine and spilled it as others tried to take it away amid curses and shouts. An unattended drink was snatched up and consumed. Someone shouted from the lobby and a moment later two more gang members burst into the room and tossed onto the table the four hubcaps from the colonel’s staff car.

The entrance was a smashing success; laughs came tumbling on top of one another — jeers were thrown across the table and feigned insults brought pretended threats of instant violence. The tensions that had been building for weeks spilled out into the open and the accumulated bitterness was let loose. Toasts to all sorts of fanciful subjects were raised and downed. Steaks and salads were brought in, but little attention was paid to the food. It was an uninhibited bash, and every man present threw himself into the mood of abandonment.

They ate when they were able, but the noise level remained high and unrestrained. “Get some women up here!” someone shouted. “Get some go-go girls to take off their pants and dance!” That brought a fresh spasm of loud clapping and cheers. There were no go-go dancers, but that mattered little — they created them. Someone raised a glass and proposed a toast to the health of the Director of Air Safety — he was shouted down in a chorus of boos. The Pharaohs rose to attack; someone emptied a half-filled glass of beer over the toaster’s head. The colonel laughed until there were tears in his eyes.

Above the noise in the room the PA system came on. Enough quiet fell to hear what was said: another Phase Alert had been declared.

No one heeded it; more beer was called for. The waiters tried to clear away the plates and succeeded in part; as one of them bent across the table he was solidly goosed by a leering street character who roared at his discomfort. The waiter acted out his indignation, playing his part in the grand farce. The dessert was on a cart, ready to be brought in, but first attention was given to keeping the wine glasses full. Hardly anyone sat still in his chair; the abandonment seized hold of everyone and wild shouting again filled the room. Then one of the men picked up a hubcap, banged on it to be heard over the din, and when he had attracted everyone’s attention, he called on the colonel to unveil the portrait.

“Come on,” the speaker urged, “let’s see the best goddamned airplane that ever was! One of them brought my father back with six dead men along with him.”

“Was he alive?” someone shouted back.

“Well what the hell, I’m here!”

The club manager came in as the colonel rose to make his speech. The manager located Major Kimsey with some difficulty and bent over him for a few moments. Kimsey got up and left the room.

The colonel fought his way up to the end of the room, prepared to do his duty. At last he stood by the painting and waited for the room to quiet down enough so that he could speak. He had some quips that were well suited to the moment; as he stood by the covered picture he did so in anything but a military manner. A glass of wine was in his left hand.

“Gentlemen,” he shouted, “—if there’s anyone here who answers that description…”

A loud laugh echoed him; the Pharaohs jumped to their feet — insulted and outraged. The hubcap was banged again to restore order.

Major Kimsey came back into the room and, putting his fingers to his lips, gave a loud whistle. It cut through the other noise of the party and commanded attention. When he got it, he had dropped his role and was suddenly a field-grade officer. There was an abrupt silence.

“We have an emergency medevac,” he said. “Dr. Pedersen radioed from Kanak. He has a Greenlander girl who’s been attacked by dogs and needs hospitalization immediately. It’s marginal because we’ve got a Phase Alert on. Our only chance is to go now.”

With the abruptness of a thunderclap the party was over. The Pharaohs vanished and the pilots of Det. 4 hurried as quickly as they could from the room. Major Valen was with them; the medical officers were immediately behind.

In less than a minute the room was empty — the painting still covered on its easel, the desserts unserved.

Major Mulder was on the telephone, calling for transportation. Captain Bowditch, the surgeon, was on another line to the hospital. A wild idea hit Scott Ferguson; he grabbed Mike Turner and asked, “What kind of a landing strip do they have up there?”

“A helipad, that’s all. No runway.”

“The C-130 won’t help?”

“Can’t use it.”

In the lobby the flying jackets were being quickly reversed. A six-pack pulled up outside and it was filled almost immediately. Another was directly behind it. In a matter of seconds all of Det. 4 was gone; in the second truck, Scott Ferguson rode along, hoping that in some possible way he could help. The colonel offered to drop Captain Markley, the internist, and the surgeon at the hospital.

As the first of the six-packs unloaded at the Det. 4 hangar, another pulled up with a contingent of the NCO’s. No time was wasted in unnecessary conversation; Major Mulder went inside immediately and phoned Weather. “How bad is it now and how much time do we have?” he asked.

A staff car taxi pulled up and Major Linda Dashner, one of the three nurses at Thule, unloaded her flight gear and a medical kit. “I didn’t have time to dress,” she explained as soon as she was inside. “I’ll do it here.”

Woody Kimsey gave her a few seconds. “No dice. This is going to be very tough and we may not be able to get there at all if it gets any worse.”

The major shed her parka. “I’m coming,” she declared, and began to get into her flying suit.

Kimsey went quickly into the main hangar bay where Tiny Heneveld met him at the number one aircraft. “Are we going?” Heneveld asked. It was less a question than an urging.

“We’re going to try,” Kimsey answered.

Det. 4 was at full strength within five minutes. Then Kimsey spoke quickly and precisely to the other officers of his command. “Here it is: Jolly One will depart ASAP. Dick, you cock number two and keep in communication. Be ready to pick up the mission, if you can, if we run into trouble. The weather is right on edge — we may not be able to make it.”

“The chances will be better if we both go,” Mulder countered.

Kimsey shook his head. “You might have to come and get us — we don’t want to have to divert to get you. But give us full back up, please.” He saw over his shoulder that the number one helicopter was being pushed forward as the main hangar door began to open. “Any more information?” he asked.

An NCO was there with the answer. “Yes, sir. The girl is eight years old. She was out with her father feeding the dogs when she apparently tripped and fell down. As soon as she was prone the dogs jumped her. She’s been bitten and lacerated. Dr. Pedersen says that her only chance is to get her into the hospital as quickly as possible.”

“Any weather from Kanak?”

“Yes, sir — very tough. Ole, the Dane in charge there, advises extreme care. He didn’t tell us not to come.”

“He couldn’t,” the major answered. “All right, let’s go.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Although winter was yet to come, the Arctic was already showing its strength in the winds that whipped across the ramp and in the whirling mists of early snow that cut visibility to a few yards. It was fully dark as Forest Kimsey, seated behind the controls of Jolly One, began the complicated checklist.

He was interrupted briefly once by the flight mechanic, who reported that Lieutenant Ferguson was ready in flight gear and asking to come along. “Why?” Kimsey asked.

Ferguson, who already had a headset on, answered for himself. “I can make a hand, and help the flight nurse. On this one it might be useful.”

That was true and Ferguson knew the risks; he was an experienced pilot fully familiar with Arctic conditions. “All right,” Kimsey said and then returned to checking out his own aircraft. He had firm doubts that he would be able to make it to Kanak, but he was determined to try. In the rescue business the safety of aircraft and their crews was always secondary to the mission of saving human life — the ARRS PJ’s were living proof of that. He himself had often been moved by those men and the work that they did. Expert parachutists and scuba divers, they were prepared at any time to jump under any conditions whatsoever to save anyone. Their heroism was legendary.

“Checklist complete,” Seligman reported.

Seconds later the first of the big Sikorsky’s turbines began to come to life. As it caught hold, ground personnel on signal pushed the aircraft out onto the ramp and into the blast of the wind. The second turbine fired up, then the overhead main rotor began to turn. As it picked up speed the helicopter rocked on its gear, resisting the wind that challenged its right to even attempt to fly. As soon as the hangar door closed behind it, it was black in every direction; the field lights were on, but they were all but invisible.

Major Kimsey made an immediate decision not to follow usual procedure and go to the end of the runway for takeoff — the ground gusts were much too strong for that. He nodded to Seligman, who called the tower and asked for immediate takeoff from where they were. It was a useless formality; nothing else would be in the air for hundreds of miles in any direction. The tower gave permission, but warned that Phase One might be declared at any moment.

Seligman acknowledged and broke off. The main rotor whirled faster, the Sikorsky rolled forward a few feet and lifted off.

As soon as he was safely airborne, Kimsey set up a long climbing turn toward the north. His aircraft bucked underneath him and swayed dangerously as sharp gusts hit it, but he had expected that. It was an insane night to be flying, but that consideration had to be ignored. At 3,000 feet he leveled off and set up the best cruising speed that he dared under those weather conditions. He pushed the transmit button. “Thule from Jolly One,” he said. “Tell Kanak we’re on our way.”

As the helicopter continued to fight her way through the violent Arctic night, Major Dashner checked the contents of her medical kit and chose the location where she wanted the litter rigged. Around her the men on board were firmly strapped in, riding out the storm quietly, although each one of them knew that the hazard level was high.

Thule called to report Phase One. Seligman acknowledged and asked if there was any further information from Kanak, especially weather data. Nothing more had been received, which meant little; all of the men on board the HH-3, including Ferguson, knew that putting down on the helipad at Kanak, in the face of the winds that would be tearing across the ground there, would be a risky business.

The howling of the turbines remained constant; the main rotor absorbing the shocks and the gusts as the mission continued. At times the aircraft skidded sideways or bounded upward in response to a vertical gust, but the pilots held control and kept a steady heading. “Half way,” Seligman reported sometime later from the cockpit.

As if in reply, the aircraft caught a particularly bad gust that shook her from stem to stern, but the rotor settled in and held steady. Off toward the east a rising watery moon provided a limited, ghostlike light that barely showed the massive whiteness of the ice cap. Navigation was a problem under those conditions, but both of the pilots had made the trip many times before and what landmarks they could detect told them that they were substantially on course.

Ten minutes later the gusts seemed to become sharper and more violent. Controlling the helicopter became a more acute problem as a consequence; Major Kimsey began a letdown in the hope of finding less violent air. If that helped at all he could not detect it; the aircraft bucked and yawed as it churned its way through the sky. Thule called for a report; Seligman answered that they had descended to 2,000 feet and that the ETA at Kanak was approximately twenty minutes. There was no fresh news from the Eskimo village.

In the cabin, Ferguson almost regretted that he had asked to come. The constant bucking of the aircraft was beginning to disturb him a little despite his nearly 3,000 hours of flight time. It was one thing to be sitting up front doing the flying; it was quite another to be sitting in back, helpless to do anything but ride out the bumps as best he could.

In the cockpit Bob Seligman took over the flying while the major peered ahead, looking for the lights of Kanak. Sometimes, even in fairly heavy snow, they could be seen at a distance, but the blackness of the night was virtually unrelieved and it was no longer possible to fix the position of the helicopter by landmarks or radio aids. As she continued to buck and skid in the insatiable gusts, the Arctic closed in around her, waiting for her to falter in her struggles, or for either of the pilots to make a single serious mistake. But the HH-3 flew on. The pressurized blades continued to whirl overhead; the highly intricate rotor head responded to the commands it was given as the Sikorsky fought onward through the violently unstable air.

Three minutes short of the ETA the lights of Kanak had not been sighted, but that could be due to the greatly reduced visibility. Then the small transmitter at the village came on the air and within a few seconds the ADF needle pointed the way ten degrees to the left. Kimsey took back the aircraft, made the correction, and began to descend; ninety seconds later Seligman pointed dead ahead. A tiny pattern of faint lights appeared to flash off and on through the swirling snow. Seligman began to read off the before-landing checklist.

When everything was properly set, the major turned on the landing lights and lowered the gear. At 400 feet he crossed the tiny village and set up final approach to the helipad that was a scant quarter-mile away. The HH-3 settled, holding her course directly toward touchdown. The ground wind was very strong, but it held steady for four or five seconds and that was all the major needed to fly the Jolly directly onto the ground.

The side door was already open with the safety bar in place. Sergeant Prevost looked back toward the village, and saw the advancing lights of some kind of vehicle. In his judgment it was at least Phase One, but the flight out was over and it was always shorter going home.

Less than a minute later Major Kimsey jumped to the ground in time to meet Dr. Henrik Pedersen, whose long lean frame was partially encased in a well-worn parka. “My prayers are answered,” the physician said. “I have her here in the truck. She is sedated, but I very much fear that she is in serious danger. From rabies; Dr. Markley will know that already.”

“Have you talked with him?”

“Not from tonight, but he understands the great danger of that virus up here. Almost always it is fatal, but if she can be saved, he has the facilities and the knowledge.”

The nurse came out of the opened rear ramp and joined the men.

“Are you coming back with us, doctor?” Major Dashner asked.

“With you to care for the patient, I can stay here, and I am needed. In just a few hours, I have a delivery. It will have to be Caesarean and there are some complications.”

Two fur-clad Eskimo men slid a litter out of the truck and carried it to the helicopter. Sergeant Prevost directed them and with another crewman rigged it into position.

“What is the patient’s name?” Linda Dashner asked above the noise of the turbines.

“She is called Bebiane Jeremiassen. She is eight years of age. Three bites, several lacerations. I have given Demerol. If she needs anything further during the flight back, you have my permission to administer it.”

“Very well, doctor.”

The Danish physician produced an envelope from one of the pockets of his parka. “I have here written everything I can for Doctor Markley, and it is for you to read also. Now hurry, please, for her condition is not good.”

“Good night, doctor, thank you,” Major Kimsey said and went back into his aircraft. The rear ramp had already been closed and the main rotor was still turning. He checked to be sure that the patient had been properly secured and then climbed quickly into his own seat. The girl looked so tiny and pathetic underneath the blankets that had been wrapped around her, he wondered how much the hospital could do for her. But his part came first. “Checklist,” he ordered while he was still fastening his harness.

Within a minute the main rotor was whirling powerfully, the twin turbines splitting the blackness of the night with their blast of sound. Then the helicopter rose into the air, turned quickly almost in a hover, and began to climb rapidly toward the south. “Gear up,” Seligman reported. A gust jolted him so hard his teeth collided, but they were high enough now so that they could not be flung back down against the ground.

As soon as he had 2,000 feet, Major Kimsey called Thule and advised that he was on the way back. Thule acknowledged and warned that conditions had deteriorated since the flight had departed.

“How do you read me?” the major asked.

“Three-by-three, proceed with your message.”

“Advise Major Mulder to have the hangar open as soon as we touch down. Have the ambulance inside. We will taxi directly in after landing; ear protection will be necessary in the area.”

“Understood. Wilco. Over.”

“No further message. Out.”

Major Linda Dashner was pale and perspiring — the beginning symptoms of airsickness — but she was making a determined effort to take care of her patient. The frequently violent movements of the aircraft made it almost impossible for her to keep her footing beside the litter. Ferguson saw her problem and responded; he braced himself as securely as he could and then held her around the waist. It was less than entirely satisfactory, but it worked well enough. The fact that he had not been that close to a woman in months might have affected him, but the incessant gyrations of the helicopter wiped every other circumstance out of his mind. When he could, he looked at his wristwatch and counted off the agonizingly slow minutes that were passing.

The little girl lay on her back with her eyes closed. Despite the injection she had been given, she stirred quite a bit and once her eyes opened for a brief moment. They would have been attractive, almond-shaped eyes if they had not been clouded by pain, bewilderment, and shock. Emergency dressings had been applied to several places on her small body; the nurse checked them and replaced two that were blood-soaked. There were clear tooth marks on one side of her jaw; when Major Dashner saw them she pressed her lips together, looked at Ferguson, and shook her head. “That’s very bad,” she said.

“If she needs Mood—” Ferguson began.

The nurse interrupted him. “I wouldn’t dare to rig it, not in this turbulence. Only as a last resort.” She checked in her kit and prepared a fresh injection of Demerol in case it would be needed. “If something happens,” she explained, “I want to have that ready.”

“I’m sure we’ll make it,” Ferguson said. He looked once more at his watch and was immensely grateful that eleven minutes had been ticked off; every additional minute that they flew on reduced the risk and brought their arrival back at Thule closer. Although he was not qualified in rotary-wing aircraft, he had to admire the technique of the pilots who were successfully battling the worst flying weather he had ever experienced. Every few seconds the cabin would pitch with alarming suddenness in one direction or another, but the men up front recovered each time. They couldn’t rely on the automatic flight control system; the weather was far too bad for that. They had to be flying by hand — and under instrument conditions that were close to intolerable.

To keep his mind occupied, he concentrated his attention on the thin little patient who had been so savagely mauled. He tried to evaluate her chances of recovery; as far as he could see she should be all right if they got her into the hospital within the next hour. He focused his mind on the toughness of the Eskimo people; they were continuously exposed to severe conditions and their physical stamina was remarkable. Young and little as Bebiane was, that heritage could help her.

When he realized that Linda Dashner was beginning to have stomach convulsions, he handed a wax-lined bag to her just in time. She seized the bag, thrust her face into it, and allowed the contents of her stomach to discharge. After a few seconds she coughed and then vomited again; the bag was already full. Sergeant Prevost provided another while Ferguson, whose own stomach was giving him considerable trouble, disposed of the full one in the aircraft’s trash container.

“Feel better now?” he asked.

The unhappy young woman nodded her head enough to answer him as she fought to regain her self-control. Every motion of the aircraft was agony to her; she bent over and made use of the fresh bag, gasping for air as she did so. With Prevost’s help, Ferguson got her to sit down and strapped her in. The little Eskimo girl was quiet, mercifully unaware of the stormy ride she was enduring. As the flight nurse sat with her head almost between her knees, the helicopter changed attitude and Ferguson realized that they were beginning to descend.

Major Kimsey called the tower to report himself eight minutes out. This time the communications were distinct and clear; he was told that the hangar would be opened as soon as he was down and that the ambulance, with Dr. Markley, was waiting inside. The base was approaching Phase Two status. The controller gave him clearance direct to the hangar, then he alerted the fire and crash equipment, telling them the approach the helicopter was going to take.

At four minutes before the ETA, the emergency equipment rolled into position on each side of the hangar doors, out of the way but ready to respond immediately if necessary. Eighty seconds later the landing lights of the incoming aircraft could be seen.

It was almost over then, but the very last part could be the worst. Major Kimsey flew directly across the field at two hundred feet, slowed, and began to let down. For a moment the helicopter almost broke out of control, then it straightened and kept up its angle of descent. Six feet above the ramp it went into hover; fighting the heavy wind, it eased down, and then dropped onto the ramp. As soon as the wheels had hit the concrete, a dozen parka-clad men ran to help control it on the ground. The aircraft turned and then headed toward the bright welcoming lights less than a hundred and fifty feet away. The major cut the turbines to idle and let the rotors slow down as the ground crew pushed his aircraft forward. As the wheels crossed the threshold of the hangar, he shut the turbines down and applied the main rotor brake.

Sergeant Prevost dropped the rear ramp and the doctor came aboard. Under his direction the litter was moved to the ambulance; the patient was on her way to the hospital very shortly thereafter.

Since their part was now over, the men of Det. 4 took time to catch up with themselves. Major Dashner was installed in a deep, comfortable chair where she could remain perfectly stitt — the most effective relief she could have. Ferguson followed her example; it had been a very rough ride and he was ready for a little peace and quiet himself.

Dick Mulder met Kimsey as he came off the aircraft. “How was it?” he asked.

“We went and we came back — that’s about it.”

Bob Seligman deplaned and headed for the latrine. He had taken a considerable beating too; it had not been easy in the cockpit.

In the hospital, little Bebiane Jeremiassen, undergoing careful examination, lay very still on the table in one of the two operating rooms. Captain Markley, the internist, was working over her while Captain Bowditch, the surgeon, stood by to suture her wounds. Both available nurses were on hand to assist.

“I don’t like this,” Markley said. “I understood that she had been attacked early this evening in Kanak. Apparently that isn’t the case. I think we should try to raise Dr. Pedersen and get a fuller history.”

At that moment there was a tap on the door. That was most unusual; the operating areas were kept immaculately clean and no outside personnel were admitted. One of the nurses responded and came back with an envelope. “Sergeant Prevost brought this,” she said. “It’s from Dr. Pedersen; they forgot to give it to you in the hangar.”

Markley tore it open quickly and began to read. As he did so, added evidence of concern shadowed his smooth, youthful face. “Here’s the answer,” he said. “She was hurt more than three days ago when she was out with her family at a hunting camp. They brought her in the best way they could, but Pedersen didn’t see her until earlier tonight. Apparently she also had some sort of mishap on the way — that would account for the fresh bleeding.”

He read on before he continued. “Pedersen is very concerned about rabies, of course. Besides the face, she was bitten in two other places.”

“Did he give her a Pasteur shot?”

Markley nodded. “Yes, and we’ll continue the series, of course, but that three-day interval before she was treated has got me scared.”

Bowditch saw no reason not to state it plainly. “With a bite on the face, that close to the brain, the incubation could be fairly rapid, too. And I don’t see any way to get the head of the dog for lab work. They may not know which one it was that actually bit her.”

“There may have been more than one, since there was a pack. Bob, I think we’ll have to assume that the animal was rabid, since sixty percent of them are. Go ahead and get those lacerations cleaned up, irrigated, and sutured. Meanwhile, I’ll try to get her stabilized.”

“Right.” Bowditch began his careful, skilled work while his patient was still well under the merciful influence of the Demerol. For close to an hour he repaired the damage as continuous information on her vital signs was supplied to him. When he had done everything that he could at that stage, he emerged from the operating room to find Colonel Kleckner waiting outside. Scott Ferguson was there too, and three of the men from Det. 4.

Bowditch dropped into a chair and removed his surgeon’s mask so that he could talk more easily. Like Ferguson, he was also a very young man, slender almost to the point of being lean, but he knew his profession and he had the hands to practice it. “I’m damn glad that you got her in here tonight,” he said. “If you hadn’t, it might have been a lot worse. I’ve just cleaned up all of the lacerations. At her age, and in her general physical condition, they shouldn’t cause too many problems.”

“How about rabies?” the colonel asked.

“The question is whether Dr. Pedersen saw her in time. She was bitten on the face more than three days ago, which may have injected the virus very close to the brain. Frankly, Herb and I are very worried about that.”

“If she has it, what are her chances?” Ferguson asked.

“To be honest, very poor. Rabies in humans has always been considered to be a hundred percent fatal, but there is a treatment now and a recovery was reported in 1971. We’re going to give it everything we’ve got.”

The colonel was visibly concerned. “How about it, Bob, are we equipped to use that procedure here if it becomes necessary? If not, the moment the weather permits I’ll have her transported in the C-130 to any facility you specify.”

Ferguson didn’t wait to let the surgeon answer. “If it’s critical, we can get out of here tonight. We have the range to clear this storm and lift her directly to Walter Reed or wherever you say. Shall we get ready?”

Bowditch quickly shook his head. “I don’t think she should be moved, and we have almost everything here. We’re going to watch her on a minute-by-minute basis; if she shows any signs of going into fasciculation, then I’m sure that Herb will immobilize her. If it gets that far, then our respirator won’t be adequate; we’ll have to have a Bennett MA-1. They’ve got one at Dronning Ingrid’s Hospital in Godthaab. We can ask for it along with a catastrophic team; there’ll be time enough for that.”

“Will they respond?” the colonel asked.

“Absolutely. The patient is a Greenlander, which means a lot to them. But they would come anyway.”

Throughout the rest of the night an intense watch was kept over the tiny Eskimo girl; Markley broke his sleep three times to check on her condition and to instruct Captain Debra Lyons, who was continuously at her bedside. Fortunately, the only other patient in the hospital was an Army man recuperating from a cracked rib, and his condition imposed no problems.

At 1100 hours the following morning Linda Dashner, who had taken over from the night nurse, noticed that her patient coughed twice within five minutes. Normally that would not have unduly concerned her, but because she knew exactly what to watch for, she called the doctor.

Markley responded quickly and examined Bebiane’s throat for visible evidence of soreness. “I’ve got to talk to her,” he said. “Some of the Danes here can speak Eskimo; I need one as soon as possible. Commander Kure will know.”

Linda left quickly and picked up the nearest phone. Fifteen minutes later Karsten Thorlund appeared at the door of the sickroom. “You speak Eskimo?” Markley asked.

The Dane nodded. “That I do.”

“Good. Introduce yourself and explain that I want her to answer some questions.”

The internist could not understand a word that was spoken, but he saw that communications had been established. “Does your throat feel sore?” he asked through the interpreter.

His little patient slowly nodded her head.

He smiled at her. “How about something to eat? We have good food here.”

After that had been translated, the child rolled her head a minimum amount on the pillow. Markley looked at Linda. “Note loss of appetite.” Then he turned back to Bebiane. “Do you have a headache?” he asked.

This time the answer came verbally. “She says a little,” Thorlund translated.

“Ask her if she has any feeling of nausea.”

“Doctor, she may not know what that means.”

“Then ask her if her stomach feels all right.”

Thorlund took longer to get the answer to that. “She does not feel good, but she says that is because she hurts all over. She asks that her father not kill the dogs because they will be needed this winter.”

Markley drew Linda aside. “Watch for any indications that she is unduly sensitive to either noise or light. Also, I want you to offer her a drink of water, milk, or whatever at least every half hour. I want to know if she accepts any liquids, or if she displays definite rejection. And if you note any excess salivation, notify me at once.”

“Yes, doctor.”

“I will stay,” Thorlund volunteered. “It may help her to talk to someone. And if she wishes to say something to the nurse, I can translate.”

“Thank you — I much appreciate it.”

“I do not mind, doctor; there is no place to got.”

When the lunch tray arrived, the child perked up and ate a little. After that she rested quietly until shortly after 1500 hours; then she motioned to the man who could understand her and made a request. Thorlund translated for the nurse. “She says that the light in the ceiling is hurting her eyes. She asks that you turn it off.”

Linda stepped to the switch and obliged. She checked her patient to be sure that she was all right, then she stepped out and called Markley at once. As soon as the internist had that fresh bit of news, he picked up his phone and dialed Weather. “What are the chances of getting a flight in here tomorrow if we have to?” he asked.

“Tomorrow should be all right,” the duty forecaster told him. “We expect diminished winds, well below Phase Alert. However, we have another storm coming in, probably in a day or two.”

“Thank you.” That much, at least, had been good news. The doctor hung up for a moment and then called the base operator. “I want to talk to Dronning Ingrid’s Hospital at Godthaab,” he said. “Medical priority.”

“Right. Call you back, sir.”

Markley crossed to Bowditch’s office to fill his colleague in. “Right now it doesn’t look too good,” he said. “She’s got a slight sore throat, very little appetite, and she just asked to have the ceiling light in her room turned off.”

Bowditch considered that. “Indicative,” he agreed, “but fortunately not conclusive. She was pretty badly mauled and she had a rough time of it until Pedersen was able to give her that Demerol. Then she had a Pasteur shot, and I did quite a bit of work on her. All that could cause a loss of appetite and contribute to a sore throat. And she may simply have gotten tired of staring up at that light.”

“Is that your honest medical opinion?” Markley asked calmly.

“It’s one way of looking at it.”

The young internist took a deep breath and let it out again. “All right, but I’ve got a call in to Godthaab to alert them that we have at least a fifty-percent chance of a case of human rabies here. If the symptoms persist, or if I get any new indications, I’m going to ask them to send their Bennett up here.”

“With a team?”

“Yes. The moment that she shows the first sign of muscle spasms, if she does, I’m going to immobilize her.”

“Tough on the patient.”

“I know it, but not as tough as losing her young life. And that’s what I’m facing now.” He heard the phone ring on his desk and he hurried to answer it. While he was talking, Bowditch pushed a cart of supplies down the corridor himself on his way to check on the lacerations that he had repaired the night before. There was visible reddening around one of the spots where the girl had been bitten; as soon as he discovered it, he sent word to Markley.

Less than an hour later the hospital at Godthaab called back; the chief of staff there asked for the latest report. Markley confirmed that his patient was already showing many of the classical symptoms of rabies. She had been given her second Pasteur shot, but the indicated treatment probably had been started too late.

As Markley finished reporting, Bowditch was back and touched him on the arm. “She refused water, and when the nurse set it on the table beside her, she deliberately knocked it away.”

For a second Markely looked ashen, then with his voice a little tighter than usual, he reported the new information over the telephone.

“We will set up a team immediately,” the chief of staff at Godthaab advised. “They will start up in the morning and will bring our Bennett with them. When do you plan to immobilize?”

“At the first sign of muscle spasms.”

“Good — I concur. Look for our people tomorrow afternoon. Will you need them sooner?”

“No, doctor — we have a small respirator, here that is good for several hours.”

“You have enough curare? I can send some.”

“We have the curare. Doctor, thank you for this help; if I have to immobilize her, then your team will be essential as well as your respirator. How are they coming?”

“Helicopter to Sondrestrom; there we have a Twin Otter, ski-equipped, to make the flight. Please keep us advised on your patient’s condition.”

Markley promised that he would and broke the connection. He looked up to see Major Valen waiting in front of his desk. “May I see your patient?” the chaplain asked.

The young internist knew better than to refuse that; he took the major down the hall and ushered him into the room. Valen bent over the bed where the little girl lay, offering her a confident smile as he did so. She was clearly a plucky little thing and without the disfigurement of the bite, her small, Oriental-type face was appealingly attractive. When he began to talk with her through Thorlund, she asked if her family was all right and how the hunt was going.

Valen stayed only briefly; then he announced, “I’m going to the chapel.” Markley understood and nodded his appreciation; then he went back to work.

The watch was kept, uninterrupted throughout the night, as Bebiane slept. In the early morning she appeared somewhat better: she no longer had a headache and she ate moderately well, though for only a short time.

At almost the same time, a Sikorsky S-61 sitting on the helipad at Godthaab was loaded with the Bennett respirator bound for Thule. As soon as that vital piece of equipment had been stowed, Dr. Rasmus Lindegaard, the thoracic surgeon on the staff of the Dronning Ingrid’s Hospital, boarded the helicopter together with the three chosen nurses: Grethe Morgensen, Vibeke Toft, and Helle Nielsen, all of whom were specially qualified in the use of the Bennett.

As soon as the passengers had been seated and secured, the pilot increased the power, made a final check, and then lifted off the ground. In less than five minutes he was at his cruising altitude and headed north toward Sondrestrom.

During most of the morning there was no significant change detected in the condition of Bebiane Jeremiassen. Four of the men from Det. 4 came to see her and brought some little gifts they had bought for her in the BX. J Site phoned down for a bulletin. Scott Ferguson put in an appearance with a bag of candy. Since children were rare exceptions at Thule, there had been nothing available that was any more suitable. He sat with her a little while, but she did not know him and they could not converse in any common language. He left when he saw that the child was restless and that he was contributing nothing to her welfare.

A call came in that the helicopter from Godthaab had arrived at Sondrestrom and that the transfer was being made to the Twin Otter. Dr. Pedersen at Kanak was brought up to date. Major Kimsey checked with the hospital as to the advisability of laying on a trip to the Eskimo village to bring back Bebiane’s parents and possibly some other members of her family. Dr. Markley gave a qualified response, saying that her family could see her as long as her condition remained relatively stable. Invisibly, but powerfully, much of the life at Thule began to revolve around that one hospital room where a small Greenlander girl might or might not be critically ill. There were many fathers on the base, Danish and American.

Then, with abrupt suddenness, the issue was decided not long after 1200 hours. Since his patient had been resting as comfortably as could be expected, and no immediate developments were expected, Captain Markley had left the hospital for the mess hall and a hot meal that he badly needed — he had been exceedingly hard pressed for the past thirty hours. But he had only been eating for a minute or two when he was urgently summoned. He rushed out, jumped into his vehicle, and was back with his patient in hardly more than five minutes. In the sickroom he found Bowditch with two of the nurses. Muscular spasms had begun. That deadly symptom wiped out the last remaining doubt; he knew then that his patient did have rabies and, despite the courage that still showed in her frightened little face, she was almost certainly doomed.

Thrusting that fact out of his mind, he went to work without a wasted motion. As he checked the patient rapidly yet carefully, he was brought up to the minute on the little girl’s vital signs and condition. She was squinting her eyes against the overhead light and it was evident that a savage new kind of pain had entered into her slim body.

Markley gave swift orders. “Linda, get that light off and rig an IV. Bob, please check on the respirator and get it in here as soon as you can. Debra, I’ll need the curare. And tell Thorlund that I want him immediately.”

Bowditch opened the closet where the small respirator was ready and waiting. “I’ve already checked it out,” he reported. “And the curare is right here.”

He had just finished speaking when Thorlund appeared. “Listen,” Markley said to him. “I want you to explain to her that we are going to stop the pain and the spasms. To do that, we’re going to put her almost to sleep. She won’t be able to move — not a muscle of her body. She won’t even be able to breathe for herself; the machine will have to do it. But try to convince her not to be frightened or to worry. I’m sorry, but it’s the only way I can treat her now.”

The Dane bent down over the small, prone figure and spoke to her for half a minute in her own language. As he did so, her eyes came wider and there was fright in them; Markley had foreseen that, but there was nothing whatever he could do. She had to be told, otherwise she might become so terrified that she would lose her reason. Finally, through her growing agony, she said something in reply.

Thorlund straightened up to translate it. “Doctor, she says that she understands. She knows about the dog bite disease and despite what I explained to her, as you said, she accepts that she is going to die.”

Markley clamped his teeth hard together. “Tell her that isn’t so, God willing. Not if I can help it.”

For a moment the protracted tension he had been under, and the extreme gravity of the situation he now faced, very nearly got to him. He hung on by the force of his will augmented by the full knowledge of the responsibility that he would now have to assume. Then the strength of his temperament and the discipline of his profession restored him and he was ready to do battle. He did not even hear the subdued PA system when it came on, and the announcement of Phase Alert was blocked out of his brain.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

On the posting board at Thule Operations the Twin Otter was shown inbound with the tail number, the pilot’s name, and the estimated time of arrival. The ETA was an intelligent guess that would be corrected with the swipe of an eraser as soon as the aircraft made its first contact and reported. In the remarks column, MEDICAL EMERGENCY was lettered in colored chalk. Everyone knew that already, but the Thule Ops people did things right and according to the book.

When the Phase Alert was called, Operations immediately got in touch with Sondrestrom and asked for a report from there. It was not encouraging: another storm was moving in and conditions were deteriorating rapidly. Sondrestrom Operations promised to advise Thule at once of any changes. Thule also asked for immediate reports on any contacts made with the Twin Otter.

As soon as that call had been completed, the duty NCOIC called Major Eastcott and advised him of the circumstances. The operations officer asked to be kept up to date on a minute-by-minute basis. Then he called and got a status report on the C-130. It was just out of a periodic inspection, fully operational, and ready to go.

His next call was to Det. 4, where he talked with Major Mulder for several minutes. The two field-grade officers agreed completely on the developing situation: the Twin Otter was a very rugged bird, the pilot was widely known as an Arctic expert, and there was no reason for undue concern.

Eastcott called Weather and got the latest word from there. Nothing new had come in within the past twenty minutes and the Phase Alert stood. Meanwhile, Base Operations notified the tower and then called the hospital.

One of the nurses took the call. She advised that both doctors were unavailable and that the dental surgeon was tied up with a patient. Operations asked that the physicians be notified, when possible, that a weather situation had developed. Word from the Twin Otter was expected shortly — as soon as it came in, the information would be passed along.

While this was going on, Dr. Markley was fully engaged with his patient — he didn’t have a minute for anything else. When he, Bowditch, and the nurses had her ready, the internist took the syringe of curare and, turning the little girl over, he made a careful, expert injection into the upper right quadrant of her right buttock. As soon as he had done that he turned the child back over and then smiled at her to give her the confidence she would so desperately need to have within the next few minutes. He spoke to Thorlund, who, in turn, translated his words for Bebiane. Through the Dane he told her that she would feel her body begin to become stiff, that she would not be able to use her muscles, and then very soon she would find that she was falling asleep. He hoped to Almighty God that this last statement was true, because if she remained conscious she might be confronted by stark terror. He had already resolved that if he detected any evidence of consciousness in her, he would put her under and keep her there. When Bebiane slowly nodded that she understood, Debra bent over and fitted the respirator hose over her face. After that had been done, the girl looked up with frightened eyes. Markley countered that by laying his strong hand on top of hers to loan her some of his courage and understanding. He continued to offer his comfort until the powerful drug began to take hold. Then he withdrew and let the nurses carry on.

He stepped out into the corridor and motioned Thorlund to follow him. “Karsten,” he said, “thank you for all you’ve done. You can take it easy now, for a while. During the time that she’s immoblized she won’t be able to speak and probably she won’t be able to hear either.”

“I heard you say curare, doctor — is that not a poison?”

Markley nodded. “Yes, it’s the same stuff they use on arrows in South America. But it has a very important medical use — it can paralyze a person so that he cannot make the slightest movement. That is what I have just done to her. By keeping her totally still, it stops the spasms and prevents the disease from literally tearing her apart. If we are very lucky, the disease may burn itself out. If that happens, she can recover.”

“For how long must she lie so still?”

“Possibly two weeks — or three.”

“Can she endure that?”

Markley hesitated to answer the question despite the fact that it was a reasonable one. But it was sure to arise again. “I think so. Essentially the same technique has saved patients with tetanus, and the spasms produced by that disease are unendurable. Most of the time she should be unconscious, which will help immensely. The only alternative, according to present knowledge, is to let her die.”

Thorlund nodded slowly. “Then I say that you have done the right thing. I go now to pray for her.”

“We all will,” Markley said. He went back to his desk, knowing beyond any question that he had taken the only step that he possibly could, but he would nevertheless worry every minute until his little patient had been put on the Bennett and it had taken over the essential job of respirating her body. The small portable machine that was already at work would be able to do the job for a little while, but it had been designed for short use only and its capability was limited to a few hours.

He could safely go and get his interrupted lunch now, but he had lost his appetite. Bowditch was looking at him. “I prescribe some medicinal spirits,” the surgeon said.

“I’ll think about it,” Markley answered.

Frank Tilton, the Information Officer, was keeping up to date on everything, which was his job. Consequently, he happened to be the one who put a call in to Weather just in time to receive a considerable jolt. Angelo, the forecaster, spoke to him only briefly; he was intensely busy. “It looked all right until above five minutes ago,” he said. “New data has come in and I’m drawing a fresh map right now.”

“Which means what?”

“We have a strong storm inbound; it came out of nowhere and it’s gaining rapidly. We’ll probably have a Phase One shortly.”

“Can a Twin Otter fly through that?”

“Probably, if it doesn’t get any worse. No guarantees right now on anything. That’s it. Good-bye.”

Tilton hung up, crossed the hallway, and asked to see the colonel. Seconds later he was in the commander’s office, where he passed on the fresh information he had just been given. Colonel Kleckner listened and then immediately called Det. 4. “It’s a new ball game,” he said. “There’s an inbound storm that’s picking up speed and it could be severe. Sondrestrom is also in bad shape. I suggest that you put your unit on alert status, just in case.”

“Yes, sir — immediately.”

“Thank you.” The colonel hung up. “Get me Mike Kane,” he directed. The Transportation Officer answered that summons promptly and stood waiting for orders. “Has transportation been laid on for the incoming medical people and their equipment?” Kleckner asked.

“Yes, sir, it has.”

“Good. I understand that the Otter is bringing a respirator that’s urgently needed. Find out from Captain Markley how big it is and have enough people there to handle it.”

“That’s been done, sir. Everything is set up to be in position forty-five minutes before the final ETA. I’ll be there myself to see that there aren’t any hitches.”

“Very good,” the colonel said. “Notify me immediately of any changes.”

“Yes, sir.”

Base Operations called to advise that Jolly Two had returned from Kanak with the parents and family of Bebiane Jeremiassen. It had been another rough trip, but not as bad as last time. The Eskimos had accepted the helicopters as part of their cultural environment; with stoic immobility the Jeremiassens had ridden in it toward the military hospital where their daughter lay. Thorlund was there to meet them, and he surprised them with the news that the girl was still alive — they had known about the consequences of rabies long before the air base had been built. When he explained that special people and equipment were en route from Godthaab solely to help her, they were stunned and grateful. They had not dared to hope for so much. Dr. Pedersen, who spoke their language fluently, had prepared them for the worst.

In Operations, word came in from Sondrestrom: despite repeated calls on several frequencies, they had not been able to raise the Otter. Undoubtedly, due to weather conditions the plane had been flying close to the surface of the ice cap, consequently there was no radar contact. Sondrestrom further advised that weather there was in phase condition and the field had been closed to anything but emergency landings. Blind broadcasts with that information had been put out to the Otter on all frequencies that the aircraft would be likely to be guarding. It had been assumed that the pilot had experienced transmitter failure, something that usually managed to happen at the most inconvenient times possible.

Thule went on-the-air directly. There had been no contact with the Otter, but that had not been a cause of concern. A number of calls went out on all likely frequencies, including 121.5, which is internationally reserved for emergency use. There was no response whatever. When it had been determined that two-way communications could not be established, a special blind weather broadcast was put out and repeated several times. The pilot was also asked to climb to a higher altitude, if possible, so that the 360-degree radar at J site could obtain a fix.

The door to the operations room opened and Colonel Kleckner came in. “What have you got?” he asked. Before the NCOIC could answer him, the PA system called for attention. Phase One was declared. The colonel picked up a phone and called Weather. Because he was the colonel, he got through immediately. “Exactly how bad is it?” he asked.

“Definitely Phase Two is coming, sir. Right now we’re damn glad that the Jolly is back in the barn. It looks bad for the Otter.”

“Any chance of it letting up in the next hour or so?”

“Sir, I doubt it very much. This whole system came up right out of nowhere and we still don’t know its extent. Sondrestrom is socked in; Alert is still open.”

“I don’t think the Otter could make it that far,” the colonel said. “What’s the latest map that you have?”

“Fifteen minutes old.”

“I’m coming in to see it.”

In the weather section the colonel studied the fresh weather map and then all of the available sequences. When he had done so, he was in full agreement with the forecasting staff. He went back into the operations section, called his headquarters, and declared an emergency alert. All personnel and equipment with rescue assignments or capability were ordered on standby.

The word was immediately passed to J Site; the radar center responded by putting its own Trackmasters and crews on alert status. The huge antenna that normally patrolled the hundreds of objects known to be in space, both artificial satellites and space debris, abandoned that vital duty and, dropping low, sent its powerful beam out over the ice cap. It swept across and back over a considerable arc, but no target return showed on any of the scopes.

The terminal was comfortably filled by the men who had been summoned to transport the medical personnel and the respirator to the hospital. Lieutenant Kane kept them there, awaiting some word that would allow him to make an intelligent decision. The ETA that was posted on the board crept closer. When it passed, the NCO on duty erased it and carefully printed in the word OPEN.

The minutes passed and slowly chained themselves into a half hour. The radio calls continued without response. Weather data was put out blind, together with all other available information. By now transmitter failure was almost a certainty, but it was entirely possible that the Twin Otter could still receive. At literally any moment the missing aircraft could appear over the edge of the ice cap. The field lights were turned on at maximum intensity.

At fifty minutes past the estimated arrival time, Colonel Kleckner spoke to the operations NCOIC. “Raise Sondrestrom. Get the fuel load on the Otter, the cruising speed, and the rate of consumption if they have it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sondrestrom had most of the figures readily available; another Otter pilot was keeping a news watch on their operations and he, of course, was fully familiar with the aircraft. He reported that the pilot had left with full tanks and that he had already computed the maximum duration time in the air: at 1827 hours the Twin Otter would be out of fuel.

The radio calls continued. J Site reported that still no radar echo had been received. No one thought of dinner. It was very quiet until the phone broke the silence. Dr. Markley was on the line. He was extremely anxious; he had his patient immobilized, and she could not stay alive without the Bennett respirator for many more hours.

The colonel checked once more with Weather. There were no new data to report.

Many times before in his career the colonel had stood by, awaiting an incoming aircraft that was long overdue. In combat situations that happened all the time, and to a degree he was hardened to it. This was a different matter, and fighting men who took their chances by choice were not involved. He walked up and down, thinking his own thoughts, until someone put a cup of coffee into his hand. He drank it without being aware of what he was doing.

At 1800 hours the quiet was like a thick, inert gas that filled the room. The transportation people were still standing by; Lieutenant Kane remained in the chair where he had been waiting for the past two hours. A new crew came on duty at the operations desk, but the men who had been relieved chose to remain. The colonel picked up the phone to communicate with J Site and put it down again; he knew perfectly well that they would call within seconds if they had anything at all.

The PA system came on with the announcement that Phase Two was in effect. The colonel was notified that all persons on the base had been accounted for. Two Trackmasters were standing by the Det. 4 hangar for possible airlift onto the ice cap.

Silently, the colonel watched the clock, as did every man in the crowded terminal building; 1827 hours occurred when the sweep second hand reached the top of the dial and continued inexorably onward. It took no notice whatever — its function was to measure off the astronomical units called minutes and it did so tirelessly and without emotion.

The colonel knew that it was up to him to say what everyone knew. He gave it another five minutes and then made the announcement. “It can only be one thing,” he said into the heavy silence. “Somewhere they’re down on the ice cap.”

There appeared to be nothing that could be effectively done at that moment except to maintain a listening watch on all likely channels. The weather was all but unflyable, even under emergency conditions. The colonel actually considered the possibility of an immediate search; nothing would be visible on the ice cap in the all-but-total darkness, but it might be possible to sight a flare — if someone was lucky enough to be fairly close to where the Twin Otter was down — or to pick up a radio signal too weak to have been heard at either Thule or Sondrestrom.

Colonel Kleckner — allowed to do so because he was the commander — donned his parka and stepped outside for a minute or two to survey the weather personally, with the eyes of a long-experienced pilot. He came back in, went to the operations counter, and said, “Get some Trackmasters down here to move these men to their quarters. There’s enough visibility for that.”

The NCOIC picked up a phone and passed the word. As he did so, the colonel was considering another possibility. The Otter was ski-equipped and the pilot was widely known for his ability. In the face of severe weather warnings, he could very well have elected an intentional landing on the ice cap to wait for better conditions. As soon as they came, he would take off once more and complete the remainder of his flight to Thule. So it was entirely possible that once the weather lifted, the Otter might be inbound any time thereafter.

He very much hoped that was the case, for the sake of the little Eskimo girl more than anything else.

He called the tower and gave instructions to keep up a constant alert watch. The man on duty advised the colonel that he was doing just that. The phone rang and Major Mulder was on the line. He reported that Det. 4 was standing by on alert-status, ready to fly. Both birds were fully gassed and cocked; they could be off the ground minutes after the bell rang.

Angelo came in from Weather holding a fresh map he had just finished. Without unnecessary comment, he spread it out for the colonel to read. “It’s too early to tell anything definite,” he said, “but there’s a possibility of an improvement by zero-six-hundred. Not too much of a one.”

“When might we be down below Phase Alert?”

Angelo ran powerful fingers through his black hair. “I’d hate to say, sir, it might be twenty-four hours — or even more. Possibily less. I know I’m not being definite, but I honestly don’t know.”

The colonel respected him for that answer. “Are you going to stay on watch?”

“Yes, sir, I’m not going anyplace.”

“Good. If I’m not here, raise me at my quarters the moment you have anything more to go on.”

“Understood, sir. From this minute on.”

The colonel went back to the operations counter. “Get me the commander at Sondrestrom,” he directed. “Colonel Olsen.”

The man on the communications desk raised a hand in the air. He continued to listen for almost a full minute, then he turned to speak. “Colonel Olsen was just on the horn to the Pentagon, sir; their operator patched me in so we would know what was going on. Sondrestrom reported that they had lost contact with the Otter, what its mission was, and that it was down on the ice cap. Colonel Olsen advised that they are going to mount a full blower search beginning at daybreak, or as soon after that as the weather allows. At present the field is closed and conditions are totally unflyable. None of the weather stations in the area saw this one coming — it just popped up out of nowhere.”

“Cancel my request,” the colonel answered, “that’s all I need to know.”

A Trackmaster rumbled up outside and the driver gave a blast on the horn. In response the colonel donned his parka once more and this time drew on his gloves. “I’ll be at the hospital,” he advised.

Shortly after 0700 hours the following morning, weather was downgraded to Phase One. Major Eastcott, who had been keeping very close watch, decided to his own satisfaction that the change had not been fully justified; it probably had been done to make the mess hall once more available. The major went down the hall and picked up Captain Boyd. “Let’s go,” he said.

“Right.” The two men left together, unplugged the major’s vehicle, and set out for a hearty breakfast. They might well need it before the day was over. The weather on the way to the mess hall was fierce and the winds rocked even the pickup truck as it made its way slowly down the partly obscured roadway.

Det. 4 was gathered around one of the long tables when they went inside, but Eastcott spotted Bowditch attacking a plate of ham and eggs and went to him immediately. “How’s your patient, Bob?” he asked.

Bowditch stopped eating to reply. “She’s Herb’s patient; he’s with her now. She’s immobilized, probably unconscious, and no significant change. So far the small respirator is doing the job, but it can’t hold out indefinitely.”

“If it goes, what then?”

“Then Herb will have to bring her out of it fast. That will allow the spasms to start in again; after that it’s only a question of time.”

“Terminal, then.”

Bowditch nodded. “If that happens, no way. It would be kinder to keep her under and just let her stop breathing. I can’t suggest that, of course…”

“I understand.” Eastcott went to the serving line and got his own food. Twenty minutes later, when both he and Boyd had finished eating, they took the truck to the flight line and entered the hangar where the C-130 was kept. There they found Ferguson and his whole crew busy getting everything ready. They had food packs and survival equipment to be dropped, portable radios, an extra load of blankets, a heater unit, and everything else that both Sergeant Stovers and Sergeant Holcomb had been able to think of that might be needed.

“I see you guys got here first,” Eastcott said.

“We’ve been here since daybreak,” Ferguson answered. “We mapped it all out last night. But you guys are welcome; we’re going to need all the eyes we can carry, and relief pilots. That’s you. We’ve already got full tanks and the bird is cocked.”

“How about the rest of my crew?” Boyd asked. “They’re coming down.”

“We can probably use them, but we’re going the moment that Ops gives the green light. Jenkins is down there now sitting on their necks.”

The phone rang and Ferguson picked it up. “Get your ass down here on the double,” Jenkins almost shouted. “Now!”

Ferguson grabbed the nearest parka, not caring whose it was, and dashed out the door. He had never heard Jenkins talk like that before and it put fire into his bloodstream. He almost burst into Operations to find his navigator holding a teletype in his shaking fingers. “From the Pentagon. Immediate orders to mount a maximum search with all available aircraft the moment the weather permits takeoffs. Scotty, all available aircraft!”

It took Scott Ferguson a second or two; he had painstakingly built a solid wall in his mind and he had to crash through it. “The colonel,” he said.

“I’ve got a vehicle.”

“Go.”

Ferguson jumped into the pickup while Jenkins, moving with amazing speed for his weight, hopped into the driver’s seat and hit the starter. Despite the hostility of the still savage weather, they made it to the administration building with total disregard of the high hazard on the roadways. Once inside, both men shucked their parkas and then consumed minimum seconds in presenting themselves at the outer office of the commander’s suite. “Lieutenants Ferguson and Jenkins to see the colonel,” Scott said to the duty sergeant. “Urgent.”

“How urgent, sir? He’s on the telephone.”

“ASAP.”

The sergeant disappeared inside and was back in fifteen seconds. He gestured them in. Ferguson forced himself to enter the inner office with decorum; Jenkins was so close behind him they almost collided. Colonel Kleckner, who was still on the line, smiled and waved them to chairs. Ferguson sat down on the edge of his.

For more than another full minute the colonel talked on. Neither of his visitors wanted to listen, but they got the gist of it anyway. McGuire had no better weather information to offer and all flights into northeastern Canada had been cancelled. McGuire had located another Bennett, but it was in use and could not possibly be spared. The search for an available unit was continuing. At last the colonel hung up.

“What’s happened, gentlemen?” he asked.

Ferguson could not help himself; the forced delay had caused emotions to boil up within him that were beyond control. They had been too long suppressed and they almost erupted through his brain. “Sir,” he said. “Read this!” He handed over the message.

Colonel Kleckner scanned it quickly. “I’ve already seen it,” he responded. “I also know you’ve got your aircraft cocked and ready. And Det. Four is all set too.”

“That isn’t it, sir. Look again. It says all available aircraft!”

The colonel made his decision within three seconds. “Sorry, Scotty, I can’t let you do it. You understand…”

Ferguson’s, eyes blazed. “God dammit, sir, we’ve got to! You know the score: you’ve got five people at least stranded somewhere out on the ice cap and one more here dying in the hospital if she doesn’t get that respirator. The B-17 is low and slow if she wants to be and she’s got the range-more than four thousand miles. That’s twenty hours plus! Det. Four can’t touch that. Sir, you can bust my ass if you want to, but you’ve got to let us go!”

The colonel didn’t answer; instead he got to his feet. He led the way out of his office, said “Operations” to his sergeant, and paused in the lobby to get into his parka. “Have you got anything new from Weather?” he asked.

“Not yet, sir, any minute — we hope.”

The colonel led the way to his staff car. There was no conversation as the three men got in and none as the colonel made the short drive to the operations building. He parked directly next to the door in the slot that was permanently reserved for him, then went inside.

Fortunately Angelo was bent over the operations counter. The colonel tapped him on the back. “How soon?” he asked.

“Still not good, but substantial improvement in two to three hours, sir — possibly even less. Det. Four wants to go now.”

“Negative. Where’s Major Eastcott?”

“In the C-130 hangar, sir.”

“I’ll be there.”

It still being officially Phase One, the colonel elected to walk the short distance. He entered the hangar and satisfied himself within one minute that every possible preparation had been made. Then he turned to Ferguson. “How long ago since you were in Hangar Eight?” he asked.

That was the fearful question that Ferguson had anticipated — because no one had been in the hangar for weeks, except for a few of the new people who had gone out of curiosity. He stretched the truth as far as he dared. “Not too long ago,” he answered.

Colonel Kleckner gave him a careful look; then he said, “Let’s go and see.”

The three men went outside once more and battled the very stiff wind that was almost roaring down the flight line. Ferguson reached the personnel door of the hangar first and held it open. The colonel stepped inside, closely followed by Jenkins and Ferguson.

The overhead lights were on. In stately dignity the silent form of The Passionate Penguin stood with her wings widespread in the center of the concrete floor. Surrounding her there were at least a dozen men hard at work. One, with a flashlight, was checking the landing-gear wells. Four more were up on the wing checking gas caps and the upper cowl fasteners. As Colonel Kleckner approached the busy scene, Sergeant Feinberg, a confident smile on his massive face, came to meet him.

“Good morning, sir! The emergency supplies are en route; we’ll be loading them within the next five minutes.” He called loudly over his shoulder. “How’s the cockpit check coming?”

“AOK,” someone shouted in reply.

In the long, sometimes brilliant, military career of Colonel James Kleckner there had been many memorable moments, some happy, some not. He had them all impressed on his memory, but none of them had ever matched what confronted him then. He stood still, and he thought.

Sergeant Feinberg caught it and motioned to Ferguson. “May I see you a moment, sir?” he asked. He led the way over to the B-17 and stood under the wing. “My God,” he said, “why didn’t you tip me off! I didn’t get the word until you were practically in the HQ building, and I had to set this up faster than anything I’ve ever done in my life. Actually four of the troops aren’t even mechanics. We had the show going for all of fifteen seconds before the colonel came through the door.”

“Is any of it real?” Ferguson asked.

“Of course it’s real — all but the deadheads. I told them to go up and inspect the gas caps. We’ll redo that, of course.”

“You saw the message?”

“Sir, let’s not waste time with childish questions. The colonel looks about ripe, let’s hit him now.” He strode across the floor. “Sir,” he said to the colonel, “the moment we saw that message ordering all available aircraft to respond, we knew what that meant. Here are the emergency supplies now.” Several more men came in as the door opened enough to admit a pickup truck piled with blankets and other equipment.

The colonel was not impressed; instead he walked over to the B-17 and began to make his own detailed inspection. He spent a full ten minutes. He smelled the fresh oil, checked the inflation of the tires by visual examination, and went over the flying surfaces in detail. By the time that he had finished, a small group of some ten or twelve qualified pilots, three of them civilian Danes, were gathered — watching.

Colonel Kleckner asked for a rag and wiped his hands. Then, quite calmly and in a normal voice, he addressed the men who were waiting breathlessly. “All right,” he said. “In view of the all-important fact that a number of lives are on the line, it’s my opinion that the new order we have received supersedes the old one from Norton. If it doesn’t, they can argue about if afterwards.”

He stopped and looked again at the venerable, yet new, bomber that had been so miraculously resurrected despite its thirty desolate years on the pitiless ice cap. “I see that you have added United States Air Force properly on the sides. That’s important, because I’m sticking my neck out a mile and I know it. Ferguson, can you handle her all right?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Then Boyd will fly the C-130; he and his crew are down there now with Major Eastcott.”

“Yes, sir — we know.”

Sergeant Feinberg cleared his throat. “Captain Boyd is already aware, sir, that he will be taking out the C-130. I understand that Major Eastcott is going with him, as copilot.”

“Speaking of copilots,” Jenkins said, “we’re honor bound to have a drawing. A lot of guys threw dollars into the pot when we needed the money for supplies. Some of them aren’t here any more, but about ten of them are on hand right now.”

“I’m more interested in who’s qualified,” the colonel said.

“Nobody was allowed to contribute who wasn’t,” Jenkins told him. “They wouldn’t take my money, although I have a private license. It had to be commercial or better, with an absolute minimum of six hundred hours. And every man knows the airplane down to the last rivet.”

Although he didn’t say so, the colonel was perfectly aware that the B-17 had been designed with the knowledge that most of the pilots destined to fly it would be green and inexperienced. It had been made as simple as possible as a result. Few of the aircraft commanders who were assigned to them had a total of 600 hours when they first took over in the left-hand seat. “Go ahead and draw,” he said.

Sergeant Feinberg did the honors. He produced the cardboard box that held the names and shook it vigorously. “Gentlemen,” he declared, “it is now time for me to reveal that I happen to hold an FAA commercial pilot’s license and I have well in excess of a thousand hours. So my name is in here a good many times.” He beamed at the colonel. “Sir,” he asked, “will you do the honors?”

“I would prefer to be kept out of it,” the colonel said.

Sergeant Feinberg caught sight of Bill Stovers, who was just coming out of the fuselage after having checked everything there. “Pull a name, Bill,” he invited.

Sergeant Stovers reached in an extracted a piece of paper. Since no one seemed anxious to take it from him, he opened it and read aloud. “Colonel James Kleckner,” he announced.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

While waiting for weather clearance, Major Eastcott laid out the search patterns to be followed the moment that conditions permitted takeoffs. Sondrestrom, at least for some time, would not be able to help; the field there was firmly closed down and the weather section at the scene held out no hope of improved conditions for at least twelve hours. With luck, the Thule rescue craft would be airborne long before that.

Of the four aircraft available, three could actually land on the ice cap: both of the helicopters and the ski-equipped C-130. The major was not at all sure that the B-17 would be permitted to fly, but he entertained no doubt that it could. In laying out the search patterns, he plotted the relatively short-ranged Sikorskys to cover the nearby areas. They were high probability sectors on his layout and if either helicopter made the find, it could set down and pick up the survivors immediately. He had plotted rescue efforts many times before, so the word “survivors” came automatically into his mind. But he did not for a moment forget the vital Bennett respirator.

The C-130 he scheduled to fly at a higher altitude, searching for a possible flare and keeping a constant listening watch in the hope of picking up even a very faint radio signal.

The B-17 — which had long-range capability and could maintain a safe slow speed-he assigned to an advancing line search back and forth across the ice cap at low altitude. That would be almost entirely a visual operation. He was glad that he had the old bomber to put to work; it was vitally needed. He knew without checking that there was nothing up at Alert that could come down to help out.

When he had his charts completed, the major called for a conference of the aircraft commanders. In response majors Kimsey and Mulder came up from Det. 4, Captain Boyd checked in for the C-130 crew, and Scott Ferguson came with Colonel Kleckner. In ten minutes Major Eastcott laid the whole picture out and made certain that each crew commander understood his individual responsibilities. Although the tensions inherent in combat situations are great, a coordinated rescue effort can reach even higher levels of emotion, and the air was charged with it. When Eastcott finished, he asked for a final status check. As he had expected, every man and every aircraft was ready and waiting; only the weather was holding things back.

A six-pack arrived from the mess hall with hot food for everyone. That was a welcome interruption, particularly since none of the aircraft commanders or crewmen had even contemplated leaving their duty stations to eat. The word also came that a supply of box lunches was being prepared and would be delivered to the flight line shortly.

By the time that the meal was over, it seemed to Colonel Kleckner that the weather had definitely abated a little. Everyone else was constantly checking too, anxiously awaiting wind conditions that would be down enough to permit safe takeoffs. Det. 4 once more wanted to go immediately and once more the colonel refused permission. He had one urgent rescue situation on his hands and he most emphatically didn’t want any more.

At 1350 Weather called to say that operations might be possible in another one to two hours. That was regarded as definite and the tension in the terminal increased even more. Major Eastcott called the hospital and assured Captain Bowditch, who answered, that the air search would be launched shortly, and at the earliest possible moment.

Twenty minutes later, after his fifth trip outside since the weather announcement, Major Ramsey declared that the winds were off enough to permit helicopter takeoffs. Colonel Kleckner went outside with him to verify that, came back in, and said without dramatics, “I think we can get ready now.”

The Thule flight line erupted into action. The Det. 4 hangar was the first one open; within two minutes after that the howl of turbines began to override the constant noise of the wind. From a little farther up the field, the blast of the APU on the C-130 Hercules added a fresh voice. And the main door to Hangar 8 was activated to permit The Passionate Penguin to be pushed out onto the ramp.

As the four mighty turbine engines of the C-130 began to add their full-throated roar to the cacophony of sound, for just a moment or two Scott Ferguson wished that he had power like that at his command. He was used to it and he knew what it could do. Then he purged that sinful thought out of his mind the way that a Puritan would have condemned adultery, and remembered that almost 5,000 horsepower was all that he could possibly want or need.

Andy Holcomb was busy making a totally unnecessary final exterior inspection of the B-17; it was in perfect condition and he knew it. As he had many times before, particularly for the taxi tests he had made, Ferguson climbed up the crew ladder into the Boeing bomber, planted himself firmly in the left-hand seat, and secured the newly installed harness. It was familiar to him now, the whole flight bridge and cockpit: every control, every gauge, and every instrument. He moved the yoke backwards and forwards; then he turned the wheel and felt the balance of the movable surfaces.

Sergeant Stovers tapped him on the shoulder. “All set in the back,” he said. It was odd seeing his familiar face in a strange setting; then he forced himself to remember that Stovers, his loadmaster on the C-130, was just as fully qualified on this older, smaller, slower, but dependable piston-powered aircraft. Jenkins came up the ladder with a grin on his face. “Dammit, she’s beautiful!” he said.

A full sense of shame punished Ferguson for his heresy; he had asked for this, he had pleaded for it, and he had relinquished the C-130 to get it. He did not understand himself; he had wanted to fly this aircraft so badly. Then it came to him: the rescue was the thing — the all-important mission of saving human life. He had known too well that the Hercules was far better equipped, and that hammering thought had been plaguing the back of his mind. He wanted to make his utmost effort for the sake of the people somewhere out on the ice cap and for the helpless child he had last seen lying rigid in a coma in the hospital with an inadequate temporary respirator keeping her alive minute by minute. Out there somewhere there was a machine that might possibly be able to give her back her life.

God damn it, be bad an airplane to fly, get on with it! Boyd and his crew would milk the C-130 for everything she could give and they knew their business. He felt the airframe move and moments later Colonel Kleckner came into the cockpit. “The winds are definitely down,” he said quite cheerfully. “They’ve fallen off noticeably during the last fifteen minutes. How does she look?”

“Full tanks and ready to go,” Ferguson answered. “Andy Holcomb is making the final pre-flight; he’ll be through any minute.”

“Are there any checklists?”

“Yes, sir. We prepared a full set; you’ll find them on cards right there.” He pointed.

Ferguson looked out and saw Holcomb standing motionless, in front of the nose and a little to the left. Suddenly his whole world became the B-17 and he wanted to fly her more than any aircraft that had ever been launched.

“Pre-engine-start checklist,” he ordered.

In response Colonel Kleckner began to read off the neatly typed items, Ferguson responding to each one.

“Checklist complete,” the colonel said.

Ferguson showed Holcomb a thumbs-up sign through the windshield. In response the flight engineer looked quickly each way, then he whirled a hand in the “start-engines” signal. As he was replaced by Sergeant Feinberg, he ran around the wing, well out of range of the propellers, and climbed up the crew ladder. Moments later the first of the four piston engines barked into action. When it had blown back its thick burst of smoke and then settled down, Ferguson started number two. The power plant caught quickly and evenly.

Number three joined its voice to the mounting chorus. He started number four and the Penguin vibrated with life. “Pre-taxi checklist,” he directed.

The colonel read off the few items and then said, “Checklist complete.”

Ferguson fitted on his modern headset, adjusted the microphone in front of his lips, and called ground control. “Air Force three-six-zero, ready to taxi,” he reported.

“Air Force three-six-zero, follow the Here, please.”

Ferguson chafed, but the instruction was right and he knew it; the C-130 would climb out at more than twice the speed of the B-17 and the big, turbine-powered airlifter had no need to run up and check the mags, propeller controls, and all that. He bent over to verify the mixture on number three and when he looked up again, one of the HH-3’s was taxiing past. Since it wouldn’t have to fly the pattern at all, it would probably be the first aircraft off the ground.

On the airframe a door opened for a few seconds and then closed. Ferguson pressed the intercom. “What was that?” he asked.

Stovers answered in a surprisingly crisp manner for him. “Sergeant Feinberg coming aboard, sir.”

“Negative,” Ferguson said. “No riders.”

He expected Stovers to respond to that, but he didn’t. A few seconds later Sergeant Feinberg himself appeared behind Ferguson’s chair. The A/C moved one of his headphones so he could converse. “We didn’t provide for you,” he said. The moment the words were out he knew he had made a mistake.

“Yes, sir, you did — I saw to it myself.” Feinberg read the expression on Ferguson’s face and suddenly became forceful. “Look, sir, I can con you into it, but we don’t have the time. Please!”

At that moment Stovers’s voice came over the intercom again. “Feinberg is a scanner, sir — we need him.”

The thunder of the C-130 taxiing past, its great turbines howling, cut out further conversation and relieved Ferguson from having to make a decision. Then ground control was calling. “Three-six-zero.”

“Three-six-zero.”

“ ’Six-zero, Jolly Two will follow you. You are cleared to taxi behind the C-130. Runway three-four. Wind still gusting to forty knots, observe caution.”

“Wilco, ’six-zero.”

Ferguson pushed the throttles slowly forward and felt the engines respond. The Penguin began to roll and with her forward movement came a certain stately dignity.

Colonel Kleckner was watching out of the side window, performing the copilot’s duty. It had been a long time since he had occupied that position, but be knew every aspect of the flying business.

At the run-up area he had used before, Ferguson stopped, set the parking brake, and began his systematic check of the engines. He had no analyzers, so he did without them. He ran each engine individually up to 1,800 rpm and then checked the mags: left, both; right, both. After each runup he cycled the propeller and took great delight in the fact that every response was close to perfect; he knew that the colonel would miss none of it. The biggest mag drop he got was 75 rpm, which was well within limits. Not bad after thirty years on the ice cap!

He switched the VHF transceiver to 126.2 and called the tower. He was told to stand by. “Jolly One, cleared for takeoff.”

“Jolly One.” He watched and saw the Sikorsky lift off and then climb upward, doing what would have been considered impossible when the first B-17 had been rolled out.

As soon as the helicopter was clear of the pattern, the C-130 called in. “Thule tower, Here ready to go.”

“Here cleared for takeoff, procedure departure.”

The turbines of the C-130 hurled shock waves of power across the field as the airlifter moved forward, gained speed, held its heading on the runway, and then rotated. It came off like the great bird that it was, climbing up into the sky with mighty authority.

The colonel used his microphone. “Thule tower, Penguin ready for takeoff.”

That was like an electric shock to Ferguson: Penguin ready for takeoff!

“Penguin cleared to position and hold.”

In reply Ferguson released the brake, added power, and taxied onto the end of the runway. He looked down 10,000 feet of 150-foot-wide white pavement and knew that the moment of truth was at hand.

“Penguin, cleared for takeoff.”

Ferguson nodded his head, fitted his hand underneath the throttle handles and pushed. As the bomber began to move, he continued to push until all four engines were wide open. The power plants roared and the propellers bit into the air.

The speed began to build; Ferguson held the yoke forward with his left hand and the tail lifted off the ground. The plane rode on her main landing gear as she accelerated, not as fast as the C-130, but fast enough. He felt her begin to lighten, the tires skipped slightly on the uneven surface of the runway.

Then, by that wonderful empathy that can exist between man and machine, he knew that she was ready. With both hands he eased back on the yoke and with magnificent smoothness, despite the gusting air, The Passionate Penguin lifted off the ground.

The runway fell away. She caught a bump but it did not disconcert her — she climbed steadily, boring upward. Ferguson’s hands locked around the yoke and in an instantaneous flashback he remember the time he had stood on the ice cap, had looked at her in her frozen, lifeless immobility, and had dreamed that he was flying her out of her prison. Now, in a sense, he was. As a machine, the Penguin was working beautifully, like a brand-new piece of equipment fresh from the factory test-pilot’s hands. The impact of the whole thing generated a powerful emotion in him — a feeling of strangeness combined with profound triumph. His spirit soared, and he knew that the all-but-impossible had been done and that now he was holding the yoke in his hands and living through an experience that no man had ever known before. The power of the engines accompanied his thoughts. Neil Armstrong could not have felt more exhilaration when he first set foot on the surface of the moon.

When he reached the nondirectional beacon, he checked his altitude and then turned her left, toward the ice cap that now held another aircraft that might or might not be in desperate need of help. The Passionate Penguin climbed higher into the troubled sky, responding to — but ignoring — the gusts that forced her to deviate from her established course. Ferguson flew her carefully, feeling her out, experiencing the solidness with which she pulled herself through the air.

He looked down at the immense ocean of ice that lay below him and then pressed the intercom. “Start visual scanning search,” he ordered. “I want both sides covered at all times, from now on.”

“Yes, sir.” Stovers responded.

Against the stark blue of the Arctic sky, where it became visible, The Passionate Penguin flew on, a magnificent machine that responded to every command from her pilot.

With a nod Ferguson turned her over to Colonel Kleckner and then sat back, searching the immense ice cap, and letting the richness of life fill him. On the surface below, the winds were still treacherous, but here in the sky aboard his fine and wonderful aircraft, he heard the song of the angels.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Brigadier General Everett Pritchard carried out his Pentagon assignment with distinction, but much of the time he wished strongly that he was back out in a field command. Technically he was no longer on flying status, but he still wore his command-pilot’s wings atop the impressive display of ribbons on his uniform. Having made it his business to visit the various units over which he had jurisdiction as often as he was reasonably able, he had scheduled himself up to Thule and was planning his departure when he received word that that whole area was socked in by a more or less unexpected Arctic storm.

Armed with that information, he put in a call to his old friend Colonel James Kleckner to set up a new time for his visit. At Thule the call was transferred to Operations, where the NCOIC answered the telephone. He told the general’s aide that a full-scale rescue effort was underway and that the colonel was personally taking part.

The line was held open while the general was informed. Immediately thereafter, the general picked up the phone himself to learn the details. When he had been given the story, he asked without hesitating, “Is there anything we can do from here to help?”

“I doubt it, sir,” the Thule operations man answered. “Sondrestrom is closed and they report the whole area as unflyable. Hopefully, before any additional equipment could get up here, we’ll have the job done.”

“How many aircraft do you have out on search, Sergeant?”

“Four, sir.”

“And what are they?”

The man at Thule had anticipated that possible question. “Two Jollies, sir, from Det. Four, a Hercules, and the Penguin. ”

“Thank you very much, Sergeant. I would like to be notified personally as soon as there is definite news.”

“I’ll pass that word, sir.”

“Good-bye.” The general hung up. A few seconds after he had done so, he turned to his aide, a resourceful young captain who had caught his eye some months before. “Sam,” the general asked, “what is a penguin?”

“A penguin, sir?”

“A penguin.”

The captain flushed slightly. “It’s the Antarctic bird, of course, but could you give me a clue as to what kind of penguin we’re talking about?”

“It’s something that nies — military I presume, but it could be civilian.”

“I’ll check, sir, immediately.” The captain left the office.

He was back a few minutes later. “Sir, the Penguin is a Norwegian ship-to-ship tactical missile. Do you need the specs?”

General Pritchard thought briefly. “That was pretty quick,” he said. “Where did you get that information?”

“From the Defense / Aerospace Code Name Handbook. It’s also listed in Taylor’s Missiles of the World; I double-checked, sir.”

“Nice work, but that isn’t the penguin that I mean. There’s another one, an airplane. The most likely bets are either Canadian or Danish, but I admit that I haven’t heard of it — not that I recall.”

“That’s two of us, sir, but I’ll see what I can find out.”

The captain was gone for some time. When he did return he was slightly flustered. “Were you able to find it?” the general asked.

“Yes, sir, the library was able to dig it out. It took a little time because it’s very obscure.”

“I know, otherwise I would probably know of it. Anyhow, that’s what’s flying over the Greenland Ice Cap right now.”

The captain shook his head. “No, sir, it isn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because it couldn’t fly.”

The general looked at him. “Didn’t you say that it’s an airplane?” he asked. “Or imply it?”

“Yes, sir, I did.”

“Are you trying to tell me that there’s an airplane that can’t fly?”

The captain swallowed. “Yes, sir, I am.”

Then the general understood. “It was never operational — is that what you mean?”

“No, sir, it was fully operational. But it couldn’t fly.”

“Sam, has it occurred to you that you’re not making sense?”

“Sir, let me explain. The Penguin was built by Bleriot during World War One.”

“You mean ‘Two.’ ”

“No, sir, ‘One.’ It definitely was an airplane, but its wings were intentionally clipped so that it couldn’t get off the ground. It was used to teach student pilots the feel of the controls at high speed. By that they meant forty-five miles per hour. So, sir, I doubt like hell if that kind of penguin is flying over the Greenland Ice Cap, and according to the best that the library has, that’s positively the only airplane called ‘a penguin’ that was ever built.”

General Pritchard thought briefly once more. “Get me Thule Ops,” he said.

When the call came through it was a little hard to hear at the northern end because one of the Det. 4 Jollies was back for fuel and was making a considerable noise just outside on the ramp. “This is General Pritchard.”

“Yes, sir!”

“First, is there any news concerning your rescue effort?”

“Not yet, sir, but everyone is going forward full bore. Everything possible has been laid on, sir.”

“Good. Now you reported that one of the aircraft on the mission is ‘a penguin,’ is that correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We don’t seem to have a record of that aircraft here. First of all, who’s flying it?”

“Lieutenant Ferguson and Colonel Kleckner, sir, and there’s a relief pilot on board also — Lieutenant Corbin.”

“And precisely what is it?”

That was it and the NCOIC was cornered. “The Penguin, sir, is a Boeing B-17E. She has more than a four-thousand-mile range and departed here on the mission with full tanks.”

“Sergeant, did you say a B-17?”

“That is affirmative, sir.”

“where in hell did they get that?”

“It was in Hangar Eight, sir.”

“In what kind of condition?”

“In perfect condition, sir. Zero time on everything when she took off, just out of a complete overhaul.”

“And you said that Colonel Kleckner is flying her?”

“He’s definitely on board, yes, sir.”

“Thank you very much, Sergeant.”

“You’re welcome, sir.”

As he leaned back in his chair, General Everett Pritchard was a little puzzled while he ran things quickly through his mind. The picture made no sense whatever, because if there had been a B-17 parked somewhere up at Thule for a period of years, he couldn’t possibly have failed to be aware of it.

He picked up a telephone. “Get me General Miller,” he directed.

Within a few moments his colleague was on the line. “Bill,” Pritchard said, “I’ve got an odd one I’d like to ask you about.” He sketched the situation at Thule and explained the emergency rescue attempt. “Now comes the strange part,” he concluded. “When I asked them for a fuller ID on that ‘penguin,’ they reported back that it was a B-17. Repeat, a B-17, apparently named ‘Penguin.” Just as a starter, to the best of my knowledge no B-17’s were ever at Thule. Do you know anything about this?”

It was quiet on the line for several seconds before General Miller answered. When he did, his words came slowly and carefully. “I might, except for one thing — which makes what I have in mind utterly impossible.”

What remained of the Arctic daylight was rapidly fading from the sky. Now well south of Thule, maintaining her systematic advancing line search of the ice cap, The Passionate Penguin was flying through increasingly rough air. Although his own mind was already made up, Ferguson called a council of war via the intercom. “We have a choice,” he said. “We can return home and resume at daybreak, presumably in better weather. Or we can keep on going; there’s plenty of fuel and we have the box lunches. However, at night the flying will be more hazardous and we won’t have enough visibility to pick up anything on the ice cap.”

“Sir.” Ferguson recognized the voice of Sergeant Feinberg.

“Go ahead.”

“We’ve already discussed that back here, and we’re unanimous to continue. In the morning could be too late.”

Ferguson looked at the colonel. “You, sir?”

“You’re the A/C.”

Ferguson raised Thule on the VHF. “Air Force three-six-zero,” he reported. “Results negative to date. We will continue mission. Over.”

“Three-six-zero, roger. All others continuing also.”

“Any report from the hospital?”

“Nothing encouraging, sir.”

“Thank you.”

Ferguson got up and Corbin replaced him. He went back into the surprisingly small fuselage and used a relief tube. The heater was working full blast, but it was still cold inside the aircraft. There was no insulation of any kind and the temperature outside at more than 10,000 feet was frigid. The men who had been keeping a continuous lookout were uncomfortable, but were not complaining. Sergeant Stovers was posted on the port side, looking out the large window that had been intended to be replaced by a gun position. Opposite him there was a crew member Ferguson hadn’t realized was on board — Atwater from Supply. “How about some coffee?” Ferguson inquired.

Andy Holcomb answered him. “I’m afraid it’s all gone, sir, but we have drinking water. We brought plenty of that. Actually, there is some hot coffee, but we’re saving it.”

“I understand.”

Ferguson broke open a lunch box, wrote his name on the cover, and extracted a piece of fried chicken. The cold food tasted good; he hadn’t realized how hungry he was.

“Sir,” Holcomb said. “She flies better than I had thought possible. She’s a great airplane.”

“Damn right,” Ferguson responded. He looked out of the window, down onto the darkening ice cap, and tried to estimate their chances. “It’s a helluva big area,” he said, half to himself. “Immense. The Penguin was out in plain sight for thirty years and no one that we know of saw her.”

They all knew that and no one commented. The wings began to bank as another systematic line search was concluded; slowly the aircraft turned ninety degrees, went further south for two minutes, then turned again another ninety degrees to resume the search pattern. The two lookouts got up and were immediately replaced. To keep outside vision as clear as possible, no lights were being used inside the plane except for the concentrated one above the navigator’s desk. With his chart spread out before him, Jenkins kept careful, minute-by-minute track of the Penguin’s position. He had no LORAN receiver, but he did not need it; the newly installed TACAN was enough.

Ferguson looked over the shoulder of Sergeant Feinberg, who had taken up the watch on the starboard side. “Thanks for all you’re doing,” he said, making it a general comment.

“This is nothing,” Feinberg answered him. “Think of J Site; if they can keep going on five different scopes more than eight thousand hours a year, who are we to complain?”

There was nothing to be added to that. Ferguson found a sandwich in his lunch box and bit into it. It was thickly cut ham. As he chewed, he wondered if the people stranded on the ice cap had any rations at all.

When he had eaten all that he wanted, and had drunk some water, he returned to the flight deck and relieved the colonel. He sat on the right-hand side, letting Corbin keep the command seat. The four engines were running smoothly, their combined thunder subdued because they had been pulled back into long-range cruise. The propellers were synchronized and despite the frequent moderate turbulence, they stayed that way. Idly, Ferguson wondered if they had crossed the spot where the B-17 had first been rediscovered. He could have found out by asking Jenkins, but he preferred not to know.

When it was completely dark he made a decision not to use the navigation lights; they might hamper the scanners. He looked out and saw that Corbin had them on. He was about to order them off when he changed his mind — it occurred to him that the people on the ice cap might be able to see a light when they couldn’t hear the engines. They would be frozen, probably hungry, and completely miserable. He had no idea of the condition of the Otter, but any hope that it might have come in under its own power had long ago been abandoned. The B-17 reached the end of the search leg; Corbin let it go on for another five minutes on the odd chance that there might be something out there; then he turned. “Did you get that leg extension?” he asked Jenkins over the intercom.

“Yes, I did.”

As he established the new heading, Ferguson called Thule once more. “Any news?” he asked.

“Negative, except for a call from the Pentagon.”

“Have we a problem?”

“I don’t think so. One of the Det. 4 birds is in for gas and a relief crew; it’s going right out again.”

“How about the C-130?”

“Still flying higher altitude patterns, west of you.”

“Anything from the hospital?”

“No, but they keep calling, asking for news from us. I gather it’s not good.”

“Thank you.”

The Passionate Penguin flew on. The night folded in around her, shrouding the ice cap and leaving her isolated in a black void. At hardly more than 160 miles per hour she absorbed the endless small bumps and continued on her heading. Ferguson wondered how Jenkins was possibly able to plot her position; they were well out of the effective range of the DME and he had not done any celestial work; apparently he wasn’t equipped for it. He pressed a button for the intercom. “Do you know where we are?” he asked.

“Yes.” Then the navigator added a little heavily: “Over the ice cap.”

The colonel reappeared on the flight deck. “How about a relief?” he asked.

Corbin answered him. “Take it easy, sir, for a while. We’re all right.”

Ferguson looked down and tried to see if he could distinguish anything. There were some slightly colored shadows, but he knew that if there was an aircraft sitting on the ice directly in his range of vision, he would not be able to see it. Number four engine fell slightly out of step and he made a minute throttle adjustment.

The intercom came on; Bill Stovers’s voice was abruptly tense. “I have a flare, or what looked like one. Four o’clock, range two to three miles.”

The ennui that had permeated the cold, narrow aircraft burst apart and surging excitement began to replace it. Ferguson repeated, “Flare at four o’clock, range two to three miles.” He looked at Corbin, who lifted his hands off the yoke. Ferguson seized hold, banked into a precision turn, and counted off the seconds until he had completed 115 degrees; then he rolled her out almost exactly on the heading he wanted. He bent forward over the yoke, straining his eyes, and silently praying that it hadn’t been a meteor. “We can signal with the landing light,” he told Corbin. His copilot hit the switch; the powerful beam split the night sky, off and on several times.

In answer an unmistakable flare came up off the ice cap and hung in the air a little to the port side. Forcing himself to keep calm, and aware that the colonel was positioned directly behind him, he hit the transmit button. “Thule radio, this is Air Force three-six-zero.”

“Three-six-zero.”

“We have a flare off the ice cap, positive ID. Our position follows.”

“Penguin ’six-zero, please confirm you have a find.”

“That is affirmative, Penguin ’six-zero.” He stopped and let Jenkins relay their position. Then he checked his altimeter, banked, and began a spiral descent as close as he could to the spot where the flare had appeared. The landing light cut a narrow cone as he reset the transceiver to 121.5 and called: “Otter on the ice cap, do you read? Otter, do you read?”

There was no reply. Holcomb came on the intercom. “He’s probably got complete electrical failure, sir, and that would put him down at night — no instruments. And he wouldn’t be able to start up again.”

It all made sense then. Every man on board the Penguin was looking out, trying to see the unseeable. Ferguson leveled off as close to the invisible top of the ice cap as he dared; as he did so, Sergeant Stovers released a parachute flare. The brilliant light rebounded from the snow-covered ice mass, and Atwater, at the port-side scanning window, let out a yell, “There she is!”

Ferguson racked the Penguin around until he had the Otter in front of the nose, where he could see it clearly. One person was standing beside it; he presumed that would be the pilot who had fired the Very pistol. The aircraft, he noted, had a damaged wingtip.

He had no idea how that had happened, and he didn’t care. As he flew directly over, he rocked his wings as an added reassurance. It never occurred to him to wonder what the pilot on the ground would think when he saw a B-17 overhead; far more pressing matters were on his mind.

Sergeant Holcomb’s voice came into his headset. “On the next pass, we’ll drop some supplies, through the bomb-bay door.”

“Don’t fall out.”

“We won’t.”

He used the radio once more. “Thule, this is Penguin three-six-zero. The Otter has been sighted on the ice cap; there is at least one survivor.”

He got a direct answer to that. “Penguin ’six-zero, this is Jolly Two. We are en route to your position. ETA thirty-six minutes.”

Ferguson acknowledged. “Jolly Two, we will orbit this location at eleven thousand feet true altitude; please advise your altitude.”

“Jolly Two to Penguin, we will approach at twelve thousand with landing light on. Advise when visual contact made. Over.”

Another voice cut in and Ferguson recognized Boyd’s crisp tone. “Penguin, this is C-130. How can we assist? Over.”

Colonel Kleckner tapped Ferguson on the shoulder and took over the right-hand seat. As soon as the colonel was fastened in, Corbin yielded his place so that the aircraft commander could return to where he belonged. As Scott was getting his own harness on, the colonel answered the radio call. “Here niner-four, if your fuel allows, you might come over at thirteen thousand and stand by in case we need you.”

“Here to Penguin, wilco. ETA twenty-eight minutes. Out.”

Thule came in again. “Air Force ’six-zero, Godthaab asks if you have any indication that their medical people aboard the Otter are all right. Over.”

Ferguson responded. “ ’Six-zero to Thule, no data either way as yet, but Otter appears to have only slight damage. More later. Out.”

With both the gear and the flaps down, he slowed the Penguin to what he considered a minimum safe flying speed in the very gusty air. By the last light from the flare he positioned her so that she would pass the Otter seventy or eighty feet off its wingtip. “Ready for drop?” he asked.

“Ready.”

“Stand by.” He let the Penguin descend with her landing lights on until she was barely skimming the ice cap. “Three, two, one — go,” he directed.

Five seconds later Holcomb reported. “Bombs away. It looked good from here.”

“What went?”

“Blankets, hot coffee, food, and a medical kit.”

“Good. That should hold them until the Jolly gets here. Jenk, can you make a good guess as to the surface wind?”

The navigator came back promptly. “I can give you the exact wind. I’ve got a driftmeter and I took a double drift when I had the chance. Zero-six-zero at thirty-three knots.”

Ferguson climbed back up to 11,000 feet and then held steady, swinging in a fixed orbit around the downed Otter. He would have liked to have radioed back more information concerning the people it was carrying, but the HH-3 was due shortly. Less than five minutes later he picked up an approaching landing light in the sky.

He pressed to transmit. “Jolly Two, we have you in sight. Surface wind is zero-six-zero at thirty-three, heavy gusts. Advise if you want flare.” That done, he returned to 121.5 and transmitted. “Otter, if you read, Jolly Green Giant is in sight and will pick you up shortly. Set out a flare or something for her if you can.”

He listened for an acknowledgment, but he did not expect one and none came. He looked again at the incoming helicopter and saw that it was descending rapidly. In less than a minute it passed underneath, aiming for the center of his orbit. Apparently the Otter pilot heard enough of the sound to identify it as a helicopter; a red flare appeared on the surface of the snow and, a few seconds later, another one, a hundred feet from the first.

When he knew that it was safe to do so, Ferguson, descended a little and flew just to the right of the twin flares. By the landing lights of the helicopter he saw the swirling snow whipped up by its main rotor; as he flew past, Tom Collins’s voice came in with sharp clarity. “On the ground, no sweat. Stand by.”

For three minutes Ferguson flew The Passionate Penguin in a close spiral around the marking flares while he waited for further word. He did not realize that the C-130 had arrived overhead until he was almost blinded by the brilliant flare that it released in the sky. Then the whole thing was laid out with photographic clarity: the Otter with a crumpled wingtip, the big Sikorsky close by with its rotor still turning, and three people on the ice cap moving from the Otter toward the helicopter.

The C-130 called. “Jolly, do you have enough hands to move the respirator? If not, we can make a ski landing and assist.”

Major Mulder’s voice answered. “No problem; we have six aboard and it can’t be that big. But please stand by.”

“Will do.”

By the light of the flare Ferguson saw that there were now more people on the ice cap, but he could not distinguish much about them. Arctic gear was arctic gear on man or woman, and none of it was designed for style.

Presently Collins came on again. “Report on Otter crew and pax. Everyone OK. Pilot had complete electrical failure and instrument vacuum system went out. He put down blind to wait for weather lift and ground looped. The Otter was damaged enough to make it unflyable. We’re transferring the respirator and will be homeward bound in about ten minutes. You can start back anytime.”

“Thank you, Jolly, but we’ll stay right here until you’re airborne and on you way,” Ferguson responded.

“Damn right,” the colonel said over the intercom.

Twelve minutes later the twin-turbine Sikorsky rescue helicopter lifted off the ice cap, swung around, and set a course for Thule. Overhead the C-130 Hercules broke station and flew rapidly northward. Scott Ferguson turned The Passionate Penguin toward home and began a steady climb to a respectable altitude. He had been airborne for a good many hours and he was more than ready to call it a day. By now flying the B-17 was almost automatic with him and he felt as though he had been handling her for years.

He pressed the transmit button one more time and spoke to the helicopter that was now well below him. “Penguin to Jolly Two,” he said. “A nice pickup off the ice cap. Congratulations.”

Major Mulder replied. “Thank you, Penguin. We’ve had some valuable practice.”

The C-130, with its much greater speed, was the first to arrive back and swing into the Thule landing pattern. The weather situation had improved materially and phase conditions had passed. Jolly One put in an appearance five minutes later and settled down on the runway. Both aircraft received the same piece of news; it was at that moment touch and go at the hospital where the Bennett respirator was desperately needed; only the knowledge that that vital piece of equipment was being brought in as fast as the HH-3 could fly offered any encouragement at all. Lieutenant Kane had positioned the necessary ground vehicles well in advance of the ETA and Sergeant Ragan, of the Air Police, had provided an escort in the hope that it might save an additional two or three minutes.

As the HH-3 flew in with the medical personnel and the Bennett on board, Ferguson kept The Passionate Penguin above and behind her so that he could keep the lights of the helicopter constantly in view. If anything were to happen — which was extremely unlikely, but possible — he did not want to have to waste two minutes in reporting that fact and beginning another orbit.

Fortunately, the precaution was unnecessary. Jenkins did not quarrel with the heading being held, although he kept up his chart work like the professional that he was. The Thule beacon came in loud and clear and the ADF told him that he was on the right flight path. When the edge of the ice cap finally came, he could see the lights of Thule ahead and below.

Ferguson held his altitude to allow the Jolly to land first. It did so, cutting straight in across the field and settmg down almost directly in front of the operations building. The moment that the aircraft was firmly on the ground it was surrounded by people. The ambulance backed up, and there was frenzied activity.

Bringing up the rear, Ferguson flew toward the beacon and set up a proper instrument approach. He didn’t require the glide slope or any radar assistance; the runway was in plain sight, but he did everything according to the book. Gear and flaps down, he came in over the boundary lights, reminded himself once more that he was flying a tail-dragger, not a tricycle-geared aircraft, and held the Penguin off the runway as he slowed her down and let the tail sink into landing position. When she finally settled on, it was a picture-book landing and he knew it. After contacting ground control, he taxied up in front of Hangar 8, and at long last cut the switches. The Passionate Penguin came to rest and stood with stately dignity.

Colonel Kleckner got up a little stiffly. “I may catch hell,” he admitted. “If I do, it won’t hurt that we made the discovery. If we hadn’t…” He had no need to finish the sentence.

“Also, sir,” Ferguson added, “they might have some trouble proving that the Penguin can’t get off the ground. She flew through some pretty rough air today.”

“I’ve got a lot to do now,” the colonel said, and left the flight deck. The crew doorway was already open; through it he climbed down onto the ground.

At the hospital, the Bennett respirator was at that moment being delivered to the room where little Bebiane Jeremiassen lay immobilized, as still and silent as death itself. Ignoring his ordeal on the ice cap, Dr. Lindegaard connected the machine and checked it out. He had it ready in less than a minute. He wheeled it to the bedside and, with Markley’s help, switched the tiny patient onto the new and vastly more efficient machine. “How much longer would your portable unit have lasted?” the Danish doctor asked.

“We thought we were losing her twice within the hour before you got here. It was a matter of minutes.”

“I understand. Doctor, I wish to have you meet our nurses. They have been through quite a bit in the last many hours, but they are ready to begin work. Mrs. Toft will take the first shift. She is, I think, in a little better shape than Miss Morgensen or Mrs. Nielsen.”

“If Mrs. Toft can, it would be a great help. Captain Lyons will stay on watch; if anything is needed, she will know where it is.”

For five minutes the two doctors conferred on the condition of the little Eskimo girl. Dr. Lindegaard made a personal examination of her and then read the chart in detail. “There is no question whatever,” he said. “Your treatment was the only procedure to be followed. If she lives, it will be because of you.”

Markley shook his head, then he pointed to the Bennett. “Without that…” he began and then stopped.

“I wish to ask one question,” Dr. Lindegaard said. “We were discovered on the ice cap by a plane of your Air Force — by the flare light I read it. But, doctor, I cannot understand; I would swear that it was a B-17! I do not know much about airplanes, but that one is so famous.”

“So they flew it, did they? I hadn’t heard.”

Nurse Vibeke Toft, fresh in a starched uniform, came down the hall ready for duty. “Are you all right?” Markley asked.

The nurse answered in excellent English. “I am fine, doctor. It is agreed that I will watch for two hours, then Miss Morgensen will take over. That will give her and Helle time to eat and rest a little. Helle, Mrs. Nielsen, will take over four hours later, after a little sleep.”

As Debra Lyons began to brief her Danish colleague, Markley leaned against the wall, giving way for a moment to the fatigue that the strain he had been under had intensified. “Doctor,” he said, “when you feel up to it…”

Lindegaard put a hand on his shoulder. “Go, please, doctor, and get some rest. I will guard your patient. If an emergency comes, I will call you.”

Quite suddenly Markley felt that most of his remaining energy had drained out of his body. “I think that I will,” he said. “Thank you for coming. And thank God for the Bennett. Now that she’s on it, I feel a little better.”

Lindegaard nodded. “I think that you should. She is young and these Greenlander children are very sturdy and strong, even when little. She now has the best chance that it is possible to give her with what we know.”

Utterly weary, but hopeful, Dr. Herbert Markley walked up the corridor toward the place where he could lie down and rest.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

In the center of the huge floor of Hangar 8, The Passionate Penguin stood in the position of honor. She had been wiped down, and the slight amount of soil that she had picked up on her underside had been washed away. Her fuel tanks had been topped, her oil had been checked and replenished, and she awaited the signal for further action. Only one noticeable change had taken place — a rescue “find” symbol had been proudly painted on her nose. It was her first earned decoration.

Outside, Thule Approach Control cleared a C-141 from McGuire to the tower frequency. The big jet airlifter came down the glide path, flared, greased on, and began a dignified taxi toward the place where a waiting signalman stood positioned on the ramp. When it had been spotted, the pilot cut the engines and a small reception committee of Thule personnel came forward. Colonel Kleckner was in the lead. He did not need to look at the two-starred plate displayed in the window to know that a major general was on board. Two staff cars rolled out and took positions just off the port wingtip.

The side door opened, there were a few seconds of delay, and then General William H. Miller deplaned briskly. He returned Colonel Kleckner’s salute and then shook hands cordially. “Good to see you, Jim,” the general said.

“Welcome to Thule, sir. It’s good to have you back.”

The general paused and looked around him. “You know, you can call me crazy if you want to, but I like this place. Colonel Lancaster, who served a tour up here, told me that it was the most exotic spot on earth, and I’m inclined to agree with him.”

The general greeted the other officers who had come to meet him, and shook hands with the First Sergeant. Then, with his aide behind him, he walked to the forward staff car. As the aide got into the front seat next to the driver, Colonel Kleckner and the general sat together in back. “Not too cold today,” the general remarked.

“No, sir, by Thule standards we’re having a heat wave. It’s barely below zero.”

Presently the staff car pulled up before Building 708. “Your quarters are here, sir,” Colonel Kleckner said. “We have a small dinner laid on for you and your staff at 1900 hours at the club. That will give you an opportunity to get some rest.”

The general got out of the car. “Let me change out of flight gear,” he said, “then, if you don’t mind, I’d very much like to visit the hospital.”

“Certainly, sir, no problem at all.”

In his room the general became more informal. “Jim, how are things going up here?”

“Smoothly and well. J Site has no problems that I’m aware of and our own operations are in good shape. The staff up here right now is all I could ask for. Off the record, Bill, we’re in better shape now than we have been for some time.”

The general sat on the edge of a chair while he stripped off his flight suit. “Jim, while we have a few minutes together, I want to tell you that I had to throw my weight around a little and smooth down some feathers at Norton. But I want to add something to that: if I had been here, and in command at the time, I would have done precisely what you did, and I told them that flat out. There was a minor rhubarb, but I got them calmed down. I very clearly pointed out that all available aircraft had been ordered to fly and what the hell…” He dropped a heavy shoe onto the floor. “What have you done with that B-17 since then?”

“I ordered it back into the hangar, to remain there until the question of its airworthiness is finally cleared up. Between you and me, it’s in as good shape as anything in the inventory. You won’t believe it when you see it.”

“I intend to see it.” The general disposed of the other shoe and went to the washbasin. Conversation stopped while he refreshed himself there and used the bathroom. As he came out his aide tapped on the bedroom door and handed in a freshly pressed dress uniform. The general accepted it and began to put it on. He touched on two or three classified matters, knowing that the quarters were secure, and finally was ready to leave. He picked up the parka that had been provided for him and selected from the array of arctic-type gloves. “All right, let’s go,” he said.

At the hospital, the entire staff, minus one nurse, was on hand to provide a formal welcome. Once more the general shook hands all around; then he addressed himself to Dr. Markley. “Captain, is it permissible for me to see your patient?”

“Certainly, sir. I would also like to have you meet the Danish catastrophic team that responded to our urgent need. They are top people — I can say that without reservation.”

He led the way down the corridor and paused before showing the general into the sickroom. “You understand that she is still immobilized,” he said.

“Yes, I do. I consider it remarkable that she is still alive. According to the medical officer who briefed me, at my request, her chances were almost nil.”

“Almost, sir, but not absolutely. Come in, please.”

As the general stood and looked down at the small body lying on the hospital bed, an almost visible shadow seemed to pass across his face.

“Sir,” Colonel Kleckner said, “I’d like to have you meet the others. Major Dashner is the nurse who went with the flight up to Kanak under Phase Two conditions to bring the patient back. Miss Morgensen is a member of the Danish team. Dr. Lindegaard is at Kanak now to see Dr. Pedersen, but he will be back in time for the dinner party.”

“Good.” The reply was mechanical; the general was still looking down at the thin little form lying on the bed. “Is she awake at all?” he asked.

“No,” Markley answered. “We made certain of that. If she makes it, this period will just be a gap in her life.”

The general continued to look at the little girl. “I know that she is still alive — obviously. But what is the honest prognosis — has she any chance at all to recover?”

Markley was extremely cautious. “I’ll put it this way, sir: by all of the odds, even with normally good fortune on her side, she would be dead by now. But, as you can see, she isn’t. It is Dr. Lindegaard’s opinion that the disease has been arrested. We have the full details on the first reported case of human recovery from rabies. Up to this point, her history is paralleling that one.”

Miss Morgensen spoke up for the first time. “If you will allow me, General, I wish to say that if she lives, it will be because of Dr. Markley, and Dr. Bowditch, and what they did before we got here.”

The general looked at her and liked what he saw. “Thank you,” he said. “I would like to ask you a question, if the doctor doesn’t mind.”

Markley nodded his consent.

“Based on your own experience, Miss Morgensen, would you give this patient one chance, in say fifty, to survive?”

The Danish nurse met his inquiring eyes evenly and squarely. “Sir, since she has now come this far, I would give her better than that. I am a believer, sir; I expect her to recover.”

“Major Dashner?” the general asked.

“I believe, sir, that Dr. Markley is being very cautious, and very modest.”

The general lingered. “I presume that the chaplain has been in,” he said.

Grethe Morgensen answered that. “Every day, sir, usually at least twice. Both chaplains, as a matter of fact. The Catholic chaplain has said masses for her, and Major Valen has conducted special services in the chapel.”

“Well,” the general said after thinking for a moment, “if she’s got God on her side she’ll make it, and it looks as if she does.” He turned and left the room.

Outside Colonel Kleckner glanced at his watch, saw that there was plenty of time available, and asked: “What now, sir? Would you care to come over to headquarters?”

“Is there something pressing on hand?”

“No, sir, not to my knowledge.”

“Then perhaps we could go down to the flight line.”

The colonel’s staff car, with the warning light on top, pulled away from the hospital as a small blue flag bearing two stars fluttered in a socket next to the front bumper. The driver pulled up smoothly beside the personnel door to Hangar 8 and then, as he got out to open the car door, accidently touched the horn for a bare moment.

The general got to his feet and waited for his host to join him. Then, as his aide held the door open, he went inside.

The overhead lights were already on. In the center of the floor The Passionate Penguin gleamed with newness; not a single spot disfigured her shining surfaces. UNITED STATES AIR FORCE was lettered perfectly on the side of her fuselage. In front of her nose, in immaculate class-A uniform, her crew stood at attention in a dead-straight line. Every man’s hands were precisely at his sides, every man’s eyes were straight forward and unblinking, every man’s shoes had been spit-shined to perfection.

The general approached the very tall, quite slender, rather good-looking young lieutenant who was at the end of the line closest to the nose of the aircraft. As the general stopped before him, Ferguson snapped a salute on behalf of the crew. “Air Force B-17 three-six-zero ready for inspection, sir,” he reported in crisp military tones.

The general walked slowly down the line of men and examined each one. Lieutenant Corbin, whose wings identified him as the copilot, as did his position in line, was textbook perfect. Lieutenant Jenkins, knowing that he was somewhat overweight, held his stomach in and his shoulders back.

Sergeant Holcomb had creases in his trousers that would have served to cut the grass, had there been any at Thule. Sergeant Stovers stood with the pride of a professional. Sergeant Perry Feinberg, who had three days to go on his Thule tour, was massive; his usually mobile face was like granite. Atwater was crisp and self-conscious, trying to look at least a bit larger than his essentially small frame would permit.

The general came down the back of the line and, as he looked with an experienced eye, he could detect no flaw. When he had finished, he turned to Ferguson once more. “At ease, gentlemen,” he said. “Most satisfactory. Your name, Lieutenant?”

“Scott Ferguson, sir.”

“I’d like to meet the rest of your crew.”

“My honor, sir.” Ferguson stepped out of the rank. “Sir, may I present Lieutenant Corbin, copilot; Lieutenant Jenkins, navigator; Sergeant Holcomb, flight engineer; Sergeant Stovers, loadmaster—”

“Hell, Bill,” the general said.

“Good afternoon, sir.”

“Since you are the most careful and meticulous man around an airplane I have ever known, tell me,” the general said. “How good is this B-17?”

“The best goddamned airplane in the United States Air Force, sir.”

Ferguson presented Feinberg and Atwater, who shook hands a little formally.

“I’d like to go on board,” the general said.

“Yes, sir,” Ferguson responded. He glanced at the general’s wings, then led the way to the crew entrance ladder and stepped aside. The general went up the ladder and turned right into the bomb-bay area. He went slowly, making an intensive inspection of everything that he saw. He went back as far as he was able, checking the control-cable pulleys, the rear-door latch, every detail within his reach. “It could be that Sergeant Stovers was right,” he said.

“He spoke for the entire crew, sir.”

The general turned around and made his way up toward the flight deck. He checked the navigator’s station and noted the Bendix octant that was properly positioned under the deck. “Is that the original Mixmaster?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, it is.”

“Does it work?”

“Perfectly, sir. Everything on board this aircraft, and every part of it, has been completely gone over and brought up to the highest standards.”

“I see.” The general went forward and looked down at the console. He remained there for over half a minute without moving, then he sat down in the left-hand seat. Since he was a command pilot, that was his prerogative. He surveyed the instrument panel in detail; then he studied the bank of switches above his head. Finally he gave his attention to the console. “I see that you’ve put in all modern avionics,” he said.

“Yes, sir. There is one original radio on board, and fully operational of course, but it was Colonel Kleckner’s opinion that she should be fitted with all necessary modern communications and navaids.”

“There isn’t any single sideband,” the general noted.

“No, sir, but it will go right here when we can get hold of a set to install. Otherwise, as you see, sir, she has dual OMNI, TACAN, DME, glide-slope readout and full ILS equipment.”

“What else would you like to install?”

“Weather radar, sir.”

“Would you be able to fit it if you had it — without a radome?”

“Yes, sir, that problem has already been solved. All we need is the set.”

“How about the tires?”

“Brand-new ones, sir; Goodyear sent them to us. More accurately, sir, they were sent to the aircraft herself. She accepted gratefully.”

The general felt the controls. “I can’t find anything wrong here,” he said.

“You won’t, sir.

“You seem proud of her.”

“I am, sir. She’s my airplane and I love every rivet in her.”

“No, Lieutenant — she’s mine.”

“I don’t follow you, sir.”

“All right, Lieutenant, I’ll spell it out for you. When you first spotted the Penguin on the ice cap, she was facing more or less west. And she was resting on her gear — the wheels had been put down.”

“That’s correct, sir.”

“You might like to know about those last few moments, Lieutenant. I can tell you, because I was flying her. I knew that the rule book said in all emergency crash landings the wheels are to be kept retracted and the aircraft is to be bellied in. That’s the safest way, but it kills the bird — nnaUy and completely in most instances. I couldn’t do that to her, and furthermore, I held on to the hope that the Arctic storm that had us hopelessly iced up would pass and that we would somehow get airborne again. We had crates on board and plenty of gasoline, so we might have been able to thaw her out in some way. You know that I was carrying a vital piece of cargo, and I wasn’t going to abandon it, no matter what. We did try to start fires, until we discovered that no one had any matches.”

“My respects, sir, and my admiration.” Ferguson had thought so many times about the pilot of the B-17, but it had never occurred to him that he might have been a career professional. Now he knew.

He looked out and saw that Sergeant Feinberg was standing beside the controls that operated the main hangar door — the man was a mind reader. Without invitation, Ferguson sat down next to the general, fastened his harness, and then reached for the set of checklist cards. Before him the huge door began to yawn open. Sergeant Holcomb stood in front of the nose, caught his attention, and gestured that the brakes were to be released.

Ferguson read from the top card in his hand. “Pre-engine-start checklist.”

The general reached over and fitted his hand on the throttles from the underside. “Dammit, I’d sure like to,” he said.

“Sir, correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t those two stars I see on your shoulder?”

“Three actually — I’ve just been confirmed for another one.”

“Then why are we sitting here?”

Holcomb motioned forward; from somewhere there were enough people to roll the Penguin toward the opening that led to the ramp. As the aircraft moved, Ferguson read off the first item on the list. The general checked and responded. He was well aware that rank has its privileges. Sergeant Stovers came aboard as Sergeant Holcomb continued to supervise the rolling of the stately bomber out onto the ramp.

Seventeen minutes later The Passionate Penguin lifted off the Thule runway, Major General William Miller at the controls. He flew her for almost an hour and during that time Ferguson sat still and kept his mouth shut. When the general finally elected to come in he made an instrument approach that was perfection itself. When the new tires had touched down so gently it could hardly be felt, and the Penguin had rolled to a halt, her engines idling, the general finally spoke across the console that separated the two pilots’ seats. “Thank you, Lieutenant,” he said.

“Thank you, sir. It’s your airplane. Sir, may I ask a question?”

“Go ahead.”

“Can you tell me what was in the crate we recovered?”

The general thought for a moment before he answered that. “I guess that I can — now. It was a highly classified new type of coding machine; fortunately there was a second prototype that got over there OK. It’s totally outdated now, of course, but there were certain components in it that are still being used.”

“I understand, sir. I won’t say a word.”

“Don’t.” The general taxied as though he was reluctant to see the flight end. “I haven’t decided,” he said. “The Air Force museum will want her, but that’s a graveyard. Now her promotional value should be enormous. We could send her everywhere.”

“Sergeant Feinberg has some ideas about that, sir. He feels that she could star in a motion picture. She could join the recruiting service. Rebuilding classic cars and airplanes is very big right now, all over the country and the world.”

The general turned the beautiful bomber — and she was beautiful — onto the spot that the ground man was indicating, and then cut the switches. He sat still, showing no inclination to get up. Ferguson stayed where he was, remaining silent.

Finally the general spoke. “Lieutenant, a thought has occurred to me. I think that the Penguin has a considerable future in the various areas we’ve just mentioned. And she’s airworthy, no doubt of that. We can let the maintenance types look her over if they feel that they must.”

“Yes, sir, why not.”

“A general officer under most circumstances is entitled to his own aircraft. And if he is fortunate enough to be chosen for three-star rank, then he can pretty much have the one he wants.”

“I hope that he can also select the crew.”

“Oh, yes. Which brings up a little matter that I had almost forgotten.” The general reached into his pocket and extracted a small blue box. “At the time I put the Penguin onto the ice cap, I was a captain. These are the original insignia I was wearing during the flight.” He opened the box to display the sets of twin bars. You’re due pretty soon, aren’t you?”

“Within the next two or three months I believe, sir.”

“Then when the time comes, I’d like to have you wear these. They go with the airplane.”

“I’ll treasure them, sir. When it’s appropriate, I’d be very proud if you’d put them on for me.”

“I’d be honored. Now let’s get out of here.”

Five minutes later the two men stood looking up at the insignia on the nose of The Passionate Penguin. “I’m glad that you didn’t change it,” the general said.

“Certainly not, sir. It was suggested, but immediately voted down.”

“Are you coming to the party tonight, Lieutenant?”

“Sir, only an emergency call to fly the Penguin could keep me away.”

The general took his departure. The remainder of the Penguin’s crew, with an instinctive understanding of the situation, had kept away from the airplane. The men were gathered, talking quietly together, in a corner of the hangar. As Ferguson walked over to join them, Sergeant Feinberg drew him aside. “May I suggest a little man-to-man discussion,” he proposed.

“Go ahead, Perry.”

“Several of us have noticed that the general is in a very warm and mellow mood. Also he seems very much attached to the Penguin. Now I seem to recall that the pilot who originally landed her on the ice cap was also named Miller. Of course that’s a very common name.”

“But an uncommon man, Perry. Your guess is right; he’s the one.”

Across Perry Feinberg’s wide face a cunning grin began to form. “Then certainly we should take advantage of the situation. I approve of generals, particularly when they can be useful. Considering all things, now might be the ideal time to hit him for some single sideband equipment and the weather radar. The Air Force can well afford it.”

Ferguson nodded. “Perry, maybe it’s being around you so much lately that’s done it, but I am beginning to acquire the technique. The same thought came to me. There is to be a small party this evening. I shall choose the right moment.”

“Then I consider that the matter is settled. I only regret that I won’t be here personally to supervise the installation.”

“While we’re on this general subject,” Ferguson said, “I have a question to ask you. Just before we took off in the Penguin, you said to me, ‘I can con you into it, but I don’t have the time.’ Do you recall that phrase?”

“Yes, Lieutenant, I do.” A slight touch of discomfort tinged his words.

“How did you propose to con me?”

Sergeant Feinberg very nearly blushed. “Well, sir, you know how it is; an artist doesn’t always like to talk about his work.”

“I want to know.”

“Very well, if that’s an order. Precisely the way I did do it: wait until the last moment and then protest that there isn’t time to engage in any discussions. That was how I had it planned from the beginning.”

Ferguson nodded. “That’s a good point to know,” he said.

The colonel raised a toast. “Although some of the junior officers may not agree, I have for a long time maintained that a woman never attains her maximum charm until she has reached thirty. With that thought in mind, I give you one who fits that description, The Passionate Penguin.”

After the toast had been drunk, Tom Collins rose. “I now give you the Twin Otter,” he said. “That will be a vastly easier job, of course. Then, I have noted from the charts, there is in Aero Commander on the ice cap, quite nearby, that is reported to be intact.”

“There’s also a B-29,” Captain Tilton contributed.

“Forget it,” the general advised. “It burns too much gas.”

“How many planes are actually out there?” Major Valen asked.

“Over forty,” Major Mulder answered, “but about half of them were destroyed on impact. Ten or twelve, of various types and kinds, are known to be substantially undamaged.”

That called for another round and it was drunk with enthusiasm.

In the morning, General Miller made a call to the Pentagon from Colonel Kleckner’s office. He asked for, and got, the general who headed the Air Force Office of Information, a sometimes harrowing assignment that carried more weight than is generally appreciated.

“Charlie,” Miller said. “You know about the B-17 they’ve rebuilt up here.”

“Of course. As a matter of fact, it’s your old airplane, isn’t it?”

“Precisely, so I’ve got an idea. What if I were to fly her back after all these years — could you get any mileage out of that?”

“Hell, yes — the visual appeal would be great. The TV networks will love it. What’s the bird’s actual status?”

“She’s officially back in commission. All the maintenance requirements have been met, and by the book, that’s all it took.”

“Great. Send me a crew list as soon as you can. I’ll have bios ready for the press, pictures, all that. Is Tilton in on this?”

“Absolutely — he’s already prepared most of the material. There’s a C-141 coming down to McGuire in the morning; everything you will need from here will be on board.”

“Look, perhaps Tilton could come with you, as IO for the aircraft. I can send a replacement up on the rotator to cover the bases while he’s on TDY.”

“That’s a good idea, Charlie. While you’re at it, send up a C-130 crew, ski-qualified if possible, but that isn’t essential. Ev Pritchard’s office will handle it.”

“Bill, since we’re talking, can you bring with you any of the people who actually were in on that rebuilding job? That would be outstanding.” The man in the Pentagon was rapidly making notes.

General Miller smiled. “You’ve just filled an inside straight,” he said. “My copilot will be the man who actually found her on the ice cap. He won’t take the credit; he insists it was his crew. However, I expect to bring them all with me.”

“Absolutely superior. I’ll call all of the top media people. Bless you!”

“One more thing,” Miller said. “Do me a favor. Call Princeton and get hold of Professor Mafusky in the department of mathematics. Invite him to be present when we come in. Since he was part of my original crew, I think he’d like to be there.”

Thule Operations showed Air Force three-six-zero due out at 0830 hours, bound for Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland. The crew met an hour earlier in Operations to take care of the necessary paperwork, pre-flight briefings, and the other formalities of departure. When the routine chores had been done, and the weather maps had been examined, General Miller reached into his pocket and extracted a coin. He flipped it into the air. “Call,” he said.

“Heads,” Ferguson responded.

The general looked. “Heads it is.” He addressed the NCOIC. “The pilot will be Lieutenant Ferguson. I’ll fly copilot. You have the rest.”

“Yes, sir, the crew list is ready for signature.”

Ferguson stepped up and put his name on the bottom of the form. As he finished, Sergeant Feinberg came in. “The bird is ready,” he reported. Presently, he spoke to Ferguson privately. “Did you win the toss, sir?” he asked.

“Now look, Perry, there’s no way you could have fixed that!”

The impressive sergeant gave a confident gesture. “Of course not, Lieutenant, no way at all. But I did take the liberty of mentioning to the general the sporting idea of letting the fates decide, as it were. That at least would give you a fifty percent chance. The general is well known as a sportsman and I suspected that he might go for it.”

The operations clerk was lettering Ferguson’s name on the board in the column marked PILOT. Lieutenant Jenkins handed in his flight plan; Andy Holcomb was right behind him with the weight-and-balance sheet, which already bore Sergeant Stover’s signature.

“Since we’ve got some headwinds along the route,” General Miller said, “let’s go as soon as we’re ready.”

“We’re ready now,” Ferguson answered.

The Penguin stood on the ramp just outside. The ground-support personnel were ready with the fire extinguisher, battery cart, and other required equipment. It took ten minutes to get everyone settled in and the pre-engine-start checklist run through. All was well. With practiced efficiency Ferguson fired up and waited while the engines settled in. Then he called ground control and got clearance to the run-up area. He taxied slowly and carefully until he was in position, then he set the brake firmly and went through the routine of checking all four engines and propellers and all eight magnetos. With that behind him he called the tower and advised that he was ready for takeoff.

The tower came back with immediate clearance and supplied the latest altimeter setting. There had been no change since they had left the ramp.

Ferguson advanced the throttles and guided the four-engined Boeing bomber into position on the end of the runway. Before her was 10,000 feet of runway and the unlimited sky overhead. He pressed the intercom button. “Your takeoff, sir,” he said.

Miller flashed him an appreciative smile. “I’ll try to keep her off the ice cap this time,” he said.

The engines picked up in tempo and then combined into a respectable roar. The plane began to roll forward, gaining speed. After only a short distance, the tail came off the ground and the weight rested on the main gear. The speed continued to build as the 2,000-foot marker went past. Then, gracefully as always, The Passionate Penguin lifted off the ground apparently of her own will. As she climbed up, her landing gear slowly disappeared and the wing flaps came up. Ferguson called departure control as the general turned the aircraft southward.

She climbed upward at a steady pace, her engines running smoothly, until those who were watching from the ground could no longer hear the sound, and the plane herself was little more than a diminishing speck in the sky.